. . . . . .

Bloodferns turn

deep into the soil

with slept-on fronds:

wrongs, meats,

other beings

regal and crouched —

these have crept

into the foliage, its endless

sprouting houses older ways,

old suns, mindswans.

Pricked stem leaks testament,

whittles ancestry, salts nearby

ground with mudfathers.

Pair ferns to peer, form heathen:

arranging hidden sacred thighs

in overgrown canal.