by Feng

I have learned to go deep.
My legs are as stiff
as mandrake root.
In alchemical quests I have failed
to turn anything into gold
or silver. Secretly, I have decided
to spare myself the taste.
Eyes have sprouted
all over my body.
What I touch
turns to stone.
I lie still, try not to see myself.
How does one avoid one’s skin?
Stone is cold and there is only one
way to go then.
Each time I blink, another sheath.
If you think you have known forgetting,
you have forgotten to burrow.
I take pride in forgetting.
Understand nothing.
I might be a cemetery.
People come here to make love
and drop petals.
People come here in fits.
My dreams are unknown to myself.