A Brooklyn oak in early May, I ache
. . . . from colors singing through my veins.
Centuries have darkened, voices of the dead
. . . . nattering, congealed
into sap. I have hardened—
. . . . obsession spiraling from my rings:
becomingbecome… I want
. . . . what exceeds my reach,
limbs scything distance:
. . . . swatches blue & blue.
August: dust culls in leaves’ nervure.
. . . . Greens brown.
October ignites eyes: I churn,
. . . . burn my colors out.
Wind & rain rinse me bald,
. . . . my leaves choking gutters.
Hands stab pewter air with umbrellas,
. . . . sky bleeding sky.
January: standing black
. . . . against Brueghel snow,
I am indecipherable.
. . . . Neither notion, notation,
nor dark guitar, I am
. . . . unstrung. Unsung.