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