Immanence
by Major Jackson

My own jury I acquitted my inner savage,
known for one-kneed vows to décolletage.
I was aiming for shadows bones make,
namely, the jolt of leaves and roses. A clock struck
and returned the slick smell of snow
on chanterelles. I settled into a naked meadow.
Beneath my right palm disappearing, I brought
an even finer thirst for soil and amateur brawls.
When I faced Nature, I had not a tincture of will.
I tossed her on my bed and kept still.