You ask what I was raised from.

I want to say death; it held me so long.

Seedpods in the fields like burnt houses,

grass turned to matches. Somewhere

clouds hung their ghosts over crawling green,

thick with rain.  
I was never dead and yet I was; how else

did they bury me? The bone rollers came,

put me under as a sunset flamed to rust.

The cells of earth crumble a thousand years

to brown ash.     
You need a name, to be saved. I took mine

from skeletons like words no one could re-assemble.

You spoke mine, down with beasts at the tide,

past a gate the wind spread like iron lips.

You wanted me, did you, to come back.

Do you still?