I am building my roof of turf   my peaty sheath
a coveted blanket   roll me up in it and I go out
like a light   like the wisp rising at night
that country people swear they see and steer clear of

I am weaving a mat to lay me out on   glory box wadded
with dank linen   golden goblets fit for such rich wedding
self-preservation   muffling hunger moss by moss
glutting the mouth   avid & massive   a carbon sink

flotation tank where feeling falls away   each word a sod
steeped in acid   each bud a sundew   one of my myriad
eyelids fluttering upward   set to keep watch above   to guard
dowry & hoard   wet retinue   trousseau   I swallow & build