If I were there
timorous would encircle to describe me
with flutter-crawl of insect wings.
Milk-white skin best left to curdle
would be my hurdle in sweltering rays.
Foliage whisper would impinge
on my dreams with rumours wild.
Somersaults turned in haste to tinge my conscience.
I cannot understand
this rainforest calling in me:
relentless beat of fevered blood