A faint door click disturbs 

my drift through sleep from grip

of ligaments and cartilage 

whose sinews overgrow my body

to embrace its absent self 

as if a latticed strangler fig tree

hauling its empty cylinder of roots 

skyward woven in mid-air,

where in tangled bedsheets, lost

between wake and dream, my spine

twists and turns, your breath still

threading its perfume self through

nares the scent of frost bracken,

heat rising from the forest floor.