Growling’s fine, even if the bark
From your tree is burned down
To the ember that glows from my ring.
Red rays of dusk shine behind the
Branches that hold my roped,
Green canvass bag of food,
Covered in clear plastic
To protect it from rain. This whole world
Is pretend. I lean against the guts
Of the tree trunk as fire splits life open
From its buds and fills the vibration
With ladder rungs to your tree house
On high. From there, sound seen,
The sunset is a pond beyond a marsh
And a train in the distance of your spine
Has this very evening to thank for the tracks in its noise.
Dawn’s eye includes both sound and sunrays.
Old and rusty nights that held my prayers
Behind hills contain an icy ink licked up
By me, angry and political: like birds
To bread, ears to eyes, railing to train.
