“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

My fingers are leaves that rustle and drop.
Birds fly through the eyes of my skull.
Clouds float atop my spinning head
And stars burn the moons of my toes.

Mountains and hillsides cut through my arm.
Rivers fly past my pulse
Generations of ghosts laugh at my talk
While my tissues burn and go up in smoke.

The wind on the arm blows the hair,
And at the base, a golden mole,
Such a speck as a peach might have,
But the hair arches back to show a gaping hole,
And each ounce of flesh is a fence,
Erected roundly and snug
About hidden landscapes, suns, and shadows,
Inroads laced with prickly shrubs.
Peer through. The holes are not big enough to see much,
But dreams travel wondrous wires.
Fires brighter than autumn moons
Throw leaping shadows on the arm.
Days and nights burn like stars
In the twinkling meadows of the skull,
And through the fence of peach-blooming flesh,
Other fruits blossom, beyond reach.