speaking prototaxite in the dark

i put on my dinosaur face.
the time machine is wherever you need 
it to be. i watch a little video about
the prototaxites, a branch of life that we 
no longer speak to. an artist renders them
like cucumbers tall in the soil. fungus-like
but separate. i hear them
like struck gongs made of soil.
their veins in the dirt. they hold hands 
with the thought of the tree. my guts
are too complex some days. i go out
to the sun & try to eat it. these creatures 
had a language. they grew toward
a hole in the sky. talked to blood until
it learned to be blue. a strand of a braid.
what did they do with their nights? 
i hope they knew the kind of rest
some of us do. i hope they did not
stand, wide-eyed at the bursting future.
time is a horror maker. a thumb in
the knots. each obelisk, a recollection
of our long-lost siblings. their bodies
in the back of our closets. sometimes
when the day is long & prehistoric,
i feel them. kick my foot to touch that branch
were we broke away from each other.
their hearts, worn & water-logged.
i ask their ghosts, "did we devour you?
what do you think of us? of the trees?" 
they answer with a sound like chopped celery. 
all of us, the thoughts of water. 
i find one moonlit in the yard & worship it.