One morning, years ago
Riding a bus in Finland
I saw it: every rider
Had a forest hangover
Though their hands
Were deceptively clean
Though they smelled of toothpaste
And shaving balm
They were shivering
With cold and fright
Unlying life had rushed in
Taking the place of night trees
What happens in the forest doesn’t stay there
Mushroom spores and bird calls
Follow us home–even the moon
Differs, that old parchment face
Knows our secrets
Like some tattle tale child
Planet of the Blind 