The sun is never too hot in the woods

and we'll be half in seraphinite, melancholia

will drip off our skin for the water to turn

into neptune Make the moon into a dove's wing and wrap

it around my tongue like lapis lazuli

in winter, survival in retrograde Do not pluck the flowers but lay me

on to them, or lay yourself, become

the glimmered bluebells, the roots, the oak,

rub the sky on to my body Hold me up or fold us into the earth

and press moss on to your ribs, this sap

is for our lips and when it rains

we will no longer need to run