The Drain

The forest says Erase me,

and the door to the forest says

Close me softly as you leave,

and the floor of the forest whispers

like the woodwork in a damaged house.

I pull the word forest from my mouth

like an extra tongue, and still, I move forward

through the wetlands toward a line of low-slung hills,

each step I take a challenge

and a demarcation.

I make myself so small that I can walk

beneath the lady slippers’ feeble lanterns.

I make myself so continuous that I can see

the shallow sea preceding what I see

and the age of stone and grass that follows it.

I make myself so high that I can see

the overstory’s slanting roof

and the edges of the forest bound by roads

and the last light streaming out of its sides

like water.