Notes from the Underground

A poem I wrote but don't remember writing

Like a murmur, like a bow, like and arrow, Like
a foot, Like a doze
A violent skin, quiet skin, bony skin
of a mournful silence
He comprehends the hate beyond the skin
Profound trees and thin bosoms
It is his speaking
that recovers, the steady
Remaining and reposing
Already he can touch greatness,
his viridian darkness
Within his mournful finger he thirsts for him,
arising,
...within his skin water hissing Until he is
amazing
He rambles against bitterness
Dim as a spike, bright as a limb
He prowls in the spring among alien jaws