all my missing pieces or all my hoarded holes

i am sitting on the top floor of the bus,
losing track of myself as the trees coast by.
somewhere braided in the branches and pine needles
or wrapped around a trunk
or hanging from the underside of a bird nest
there might be a fundamental truth
about something, or about anything at all.
but my eyes do not stay focused long enough.
i am distracted by the earbuds pressed so far in that
they are injecting music straight into my brain.
i know the music is trying to trap some sort of fundamental truth, too,
but there are just enough holes that the truth leaks out.
but i’m catching drops of it on my tongue.
perhaps these are the last drops of truth left in the world.
it tastes sweet and sticky
and sappy. it tastes like cedar.
i’m grinding resin between my molars.
i'm tearing down handfuls of leaves,
tearing out matted layers of hair,
tearing out twigs and feathers and spiders.
tearing out earbuds
because these lyrics are fucking liars.
i will let this forest floor consume me with truth.
there is no need to fight the new roots licking my hip bones,
the lichen collecting around my neck,
the squirrel burying an acorn in flesh of my thigh.
i am closing my eyes and welcoming the truth.