The pole rises up,
as far as the sky,
to where it looks like there is a hole.
Around us stars dance,
Constellations turn,
Hunters and prey locked in an eternal race.
The wood is thick,
dark,
and strong.
Immutable and unchanging.
I reach out my hand,
touch what might be sludge,
look at it,
upon my fingers.
Until the reddish-brown becomes familiar,
and I realise the sludge is blood.
Here are layers of blood,
blood caked on wood,
stretching through time.
By these layers of blood,
this blood caked on wood,
this strangest of trees is watered.
I start with my face,
paint myself with that sludge,
my body now reddish-brown.
The sickness abates,
flees that holy paste,
by that visceral blessing I’m renewed.
And around us the stars dance,
constellations turn,
hunters and prey remain locked in their eternal race.
