This isn’t much of a path

It leads to a dim morphic plain,

Winding five acres of rock

 

Entwined trees make you walk askance

Avoiding the matted underbrush

Cluttered with your Mother’s forbidden things

 

The Targolith thumbles through the varnish

Of your days;  you feel him ambling towards you,

you scratch at his ankles as if you were prone

 

He ascribes lust to your shadow as it

Leaps from you, a subsuming parasite

But a loving one, that you have nurtured

 

Expecting to briefly converge, uncover,

You want the Targolith to ravish you

Powerful, unrestrainable, ubiquitous

 

He cannot distinguish, extinguish

Men and women

He is alive only to their attraction

 

Here is where the Targolith walks

so repressed,

Who might otherwise stroke your hair and attend.