I find a broken window and wonder what it means.
I hear a tree bending and wish for it to snap.
There’s no wind in an abuse chair.
Tall beautiful one, if you finally fall to the barbarian mad cutter
he would not want your wood.
I will take up your splinters
but I cannot make you into something to sit on.
Burnt, your ashes help so much to grow,
and I can see the spirits climbing upward out of that dancing.
I, offspring, am sticky keys, sap stained; holding too long down
is what it takes to make a poet.