previously the end of a poem about worsening pneumonia, fever hallucinating, and existing in the inbetween. this doesn’t belong to that poem. i’m not sure where it belongs so it’s staying here for now. 

i was born on a pile of needles,

all fir green and mountain balm

i was born above fresh earth,

outside a town, a sleuth of bears

circling, i was born, and the bears

did raise me after


julianna swaney. ❤︎