Lili Raynaud

always the procreant urge of the world

By: Lili Raynaud

Year: 2024

after Walt Whitman

wind through phantom leaves whisper to me the urge

to part the strands on your face and

trace your scars with my fingertips. louder still, the urge

to sink my hands into the earth and

feel like myself again— like you in me. urge,

say the phantom leaves, urge like sunlight, always

thrumming below your ribcage, like the

train on its tracks, like the procreant

whisper of the trees. urge

them to become us, you of me & me of

you. i’ll run my hand through your hair & quiet the

branches for a moment. as they blossom into the world.