—i pull the hate
on a rope ladder to the resting zone…
pull the A on down.
Put that sick A to bed. Get well, A. Pinched
fire. Bring the T down now
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The Bride Tree Can't Be Read
The bride tree puts down its roots below the phyla. It is there when we die & when we are born, middle & upper branches reaching the planet heart by the billions during a revolution we don’t see. Quarks & leptons are cooling on their infant stems, spinning the spinning brain of matter, fled to electrical dark water, species with names the tree can hold in the shale shade brought by the ambulance of art; no one but you knows what occurred in the dress you wore in the dream of atonement, the displaced tree in the dream you wore, a suffering endurable only once, edges that sought release from envy to a more endurable loss, a form to be walked past, that has outworn the shame of time, its colors sprung through description above a blaze of rhizomes spreading in an arable mat that mostly isn't simple but is calm & free—