Here Take a Treelimb

What tree may not a figure carved from
this space—may not be guarded from this birth
as all to know for shape, or know the bark
of a human picket-plucks at bird-help, and
equally with all weight inscape, this summer

to know what of trees such cageless ripens,
as are born, to suppose, this, anyone
can grow to be a tiny maze-ish roof,
another might not always exit home
at the beginning, unwiped, non-terror-light,
time swings suspended in stairway

and had arrived shadow of dice
cast against safety-wall on regions slumped
and the life, a river-now extracts, drip-
by-drip, water if pleased by whom it seats
upon scene to celebrate:

two-eyed-of-a-present-wealth upon, two different faces,
one of them mirrors lightning, the other
thunder, another leads to a small glade
where a moon merges unknown, standing alone
wearing a drilled head-rest, pointed leaves
and gravity, by grave, the hair behind
against a neck, an ornament of space

time knew faces having been reflected
a dangle of them and began to fang
bunches around the growth of these pale birches
as they grew around thieves of luck’s meaningless
costs of sheltered wood—for lifted hands owned
what the sun used when seamless sky at youth
was only freely seen for having climbed
another mountain side of argument—
strewn over gapes of missed scatter
and went to hunt for a scented fern, nailed
wrists give, sliver, time to selves severed,
eat, but too much perhaps, as a truck needed—
so then, to build streets wider puddle support
inclined higher stilt, yet knee bent trees of earth
to put on a hand of the pick-axe-own slay—

here take a treelimb time’ll retrieve another,
grip on, with all the weight of when, then release
as said as spoken trees as truth closes
around opposite corners, true the forest-throat
a minute by a left to the blank-stone—
it caught up a turn as if it were a fish
and it a wire-pole, all was transience—
the mountain water bordered alarm
knotted to anything, loosen echo
but vines with something of a baby grip—
acquired ancestrally in some trees mildly
lunching grunt at the wild heat, now
taut babies stretch out branching their hands of
dry-itchy rain to tan against known hush
to have to ask a situational
rind peel, held uncomplainingly for air,
another tied, a made-up laugh, to help teach
what a fuse does when twined shaped
stays unafraid, a couple of eyes won’t burn-mute
to redeem a ton of pickets if pickets
mulch danger by the picking of somethings—
days gain tired as running well drenched reduces
theory of a hanging-land by allowing
hanging, known sand emotion, the other lends
to a hunch of trot-gates as lakes call them—
that when it thinks it has escaped the rocks
by growing where it shouldn’t—through a bird
brain a fox wouldn’t wink to cook it for
trade, if it looked at it—found it couldn’t teach it
justice, lumped enshrines by gathering
motions moldy and drawn vantages then landscape
one way signs, own one more stream to handcuff
a promise, a resistance for the price it
contains, not lost to offer a cat-of-shoes,
still, yet clung tension leapt headless on
shuts of ladders window sun ear-weights
against the bridged coughing droplet, heated,
it’ll sack up the arms of a fire fair
far seated—blades of grass of fan design,
drip or it’ll shake the tree and shake around
the lidded silence, imparting a false motor
for tall, stretching hints, till they reveal a tangy-sting-ray
if, which isn’t serious about anything
tight, tillage pinks about a to-do-list
of nursery trees—newts round about
a lasso cell phone curfew, now letting down
a once upon an earth of packed feet
and a shoe’s world, revolving tacked grease
knowing how looked lengths curled away from finger
brought snail-I’d-tendons to a brushed off, barked
off, other night, knowing hefty things click
into place, weighs things stretch time slows down the
leverage of a wormwood trees space—
it wasn’t the non-gravity of swing
settled melting of split ends upon switched
lumps of gutter, seared capping, or
it had been stolen from thirst-steps by a knowledge
of unlearned-quench to off a patience—
still time has not merged into the parts
of a wish stranded with a carton of
car necessity of spine for walking shards
of a tamed liver meandering
on whittles of rain-goats in the lime
of stairways nightly sleepless, nothing tells of
this lie, needlessly purchasing away the heart


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