The maples are communicating, even when
we’re not. The tree
we thought was dying
came back. Perhaps
with subterranean help from its neighbours.
Do we master our plant-ness’,
Do we find a balance-
point for our heavy
frenzied hea on the moveable fulcrum?
Ruin is normal,
a corvid thing—the black
bird caws its song, the yellow leaves in the maples
bird caws its son keen.
A philia thing—like broadhand interconnection.
I woke up feeling queasy today, as if I’d lifted
weights and laboured heavily in my sleep,
the black on my chest—a fun-fur
cat, a throw for the bed
with a flap underneath
for a hand. Animated yellow eyes. Its tail
caressed my face, like a simulacrum.
a yolk through d Like last night’s Scorpio moon—
a yolk through dirty-
purple stratus clouds—horizontal bodies /
purple stratus clouds— balancing anvils—