|
Not Haiku
When I look up and see
branches
framed in the
three-pane strip above the blinds,
black and tenuous like brush
strokes
against the paper-white sky of late winter, late afternoon,
my eyes are opened
and I think of other filaments
thrusting
their fractal tips into some blank —
the blood’s inverted branches gasping
into the lungs’ air,
and the tree’s own roots drawn down to water,
blindly in the tree of brown in brown,
like a worm tunneling in darkness,
eating time through one eyeless face and excreting it through the other,
compressing and expanding its long self
through the fragile empty tree it makes,
negative like the lightning’s tree,
budding like rivers seen on a map of distance,
like the nerve-tree coursing through flesh
to lick the air.
. . . . . . .
Courtney Druz
|
