The twisted root of my heart
is sprouting fern,
uncoiling; palms opening in surrender.
The knots are still there underneath,
falling apart, keeping together.
The dirt in my belly stirs,
fertile and full of worms
though I am not of this earth.
Shake me from sleep
into a quiet glasshouse.
Take me away from my
self, to a nameless garden.
There I will forgive
every time your eyes saw me
but I was not there.