the leaves returned, and left,
without my noticing. in summer
they hide the mountains.
passion-noticed once I thought
would be my leafage, being Hollywood
-diminutive, & fond of the mirror’s
two-page definitive guide-
a leave-her-gasping kind
of looter. afterwards, maturer,
I wanted…always wanted—a
thing of Zenful actualness…
but what a painful task!
is easier to amplify the flame,
the burn, of self, called ‘Me’
than extinguish this! the glass,
the Image, mercury—
and where, in this, am I
the Am? the tree is not without
the earth, nor Earth the other properties.
when I’m on the forklift
I view the actors in the branches,
in their bit parts bare and free.
I watch them from the press
as I’m waiting the retraction of the ram,
and on the floor, where the grey winter
mud, from the large machinery, cakes
the concrete pad—the hardest ask
of anything I sought, the baring of
the ego to the root, the paring of the trunk
flesh back to sap, and what the leaf
thereof…the trees are not
natives so they shed their foliage.
they grow large leaves easily
vibrated in the slightest currents.
I love that …middle road, some Self,
a silent ego, balanced, nonsense,
when necessary; areas of seriousness
when the nonsense catches fire,
and philosophies, aflame, have parents
injecting flame retarders
into the narrow veins of narrow newborn arms.