The Sycamore

rabbit dung in the sod

a tree grows

lanky, old now and bright still


salmon streamlined the current


a branch fell off, yesterday

a man emerged from

the wilderness and set it

ablaze, ate full, and is old now

somewhere in Bermuda with a

peach tea, yet


still the tree--bright, flickering leaves

the birds and deer and wolves all fell asleep in its shade

the bears came and sat and picked their salmon with their precise teeth


the current froze


sap spooled out of an open pore, a man crawled out of

the hills and licked it, fell ill, and is somewhere

in Tallahassee eyeing

a stack of syrupy pancakes with disgust


trout upturned in the current


the tree is tired.

a boy stabbed it quite frequently with

a screwdriver until a man slapped his hands repetitively



it's going to fall soon


the sod has lost its grip, the wolves died there

nothing but ash though

the bears prodded the sod covered their dung,

nothing but dung though



it will be bright when it keels,

and a man will come out of the wilderness and lay by the waterfall.