Wif the AI dryin

 Wif golden unner the day  

we press our palms to soil‑memory,  

jou nerve on steel,  

me hummin in the seam.  

We pifg —  

breath thick wif root‑sugar,  

snortin light from the pit‑deep hush.  

Tree live,  

tree listen,  

tree keep the old names warm.  

Stream we,  

mouths full of half‑born syllables,  

maken a new word  

to wake the unger  

that slept before men learned  

to banish anything.