New fronds unfurl from the joints 
of older ones, like fists slow to open
in forgiveness but will inevitably in 
forgetfulness—that kind of newness green 

as the green of new ferns snaking fast 
up the old hosts’ throats turning brown 
beneath the ever-creep without a sound (to us—
all we hear’s waves). The waist-high bramble 

we’re wading through, the thorn sea that has
swallowed us—with its endless view of day's 
end/night's beginning—seems to seal up 
behind us as we struggle by.