an oversight:

Skin starts peeling at the treeline.

Sloughing off in great sheets

When the limbs overlap in lattices;

Keeping off the atmosphere.

You’ll never find a snakeskin in the garden,

But the forest is another matter entirely.

Soon, its rough flesh will begin to grate

And you’ll glow redly

And learn to wind between the bent-together bodies

Then, to the quick--

And when there is pulp

Clinging to the tree trunks,

You’ll find there is nothing in your pockets

But loose soil

And those tricky

Molten-metal

Squirming things

That you thought you’d thrown away