Jungle

The banyan’s hanging basket builds its home
on the clay ridge, above the grass’s chest.
Sunlight breaks into fragments of glass,
opaque, uncertain, trembling.
 
In this impossible jungle of half-darkness,
life’s morning stirs with secret breath.
Two young bodies, raw and ungoverned,
slip between trunks with savage intent.
 
They twine, serpent-spiraled,
their embrace like the banyan’s roots descending.
The forest closes around them,
a chamber neither holy nor profane.
 
In that tangled clasp, unmarked by law,
tomorrow gathers itself—seed in shadow.