The Forest

It is raining outside my window,
yet its noise hails from within,
the squelchèd squirm of mulch
which inside room’s edges writhes
in gloatful glome and boyish glee.

The forest grows and I
lie in the bed, which falls to the
dirt. I am still there when
the spiders crawl inside my body
and the wolves stalk my empty chair.

My friends are a-whispering
when the first drops of rain
stroke my face and they can’t
yet stop, though the boughs
that hold my door tight shut are rotted.

I wake and the rain has passed.
Yet still the moss burbles, flies float in
recess of bewilded eyes.
The air still holds a mildewed sense,
and trees follow.