The Beginnings of a Forest

Discomfort and a slice of blue between 
the gray morning's cloudline; self,
self-conscious, self-orienteering with
a compass that points toward perceived
worth. Fragments. Fragment. Bags meant
to cover up the eyes they bind, bound to
meet the eye with the I sticks in the craw
of a tracking jawline, whose internal 
rhythms rhyme with deciduousness
in the winter. Bare arms and snake
them between other arms. That's 
called the beginnings of a forest.