Naturalist

I check if my head is still attached to my neck —
if my heart still beats, if any teeth have let

go, unfastened from sockets, ground to powder,
fusion of rapture and ache in equal measure;

first comes sting, bliss soon after, eyes roaming
the cryptic dark of a just-surfaced fantasy.

Below, Genuwine’s Pony mounts the subwoofer,
chip shop vinegar cartwheels up the stairs.

I feel like I’ve been initiated into new territories,
like I could dip my fingers in the odd blotch

staining the mattress and paint myself with it
bound through the village a howling thing.

A robin chimes outside. I see her bright red breast.
The thumping heart of a young, naked, ash tree.