Penmanship of Trees

Take these lines
brown cursive of branches, however flimsy,
hurl them at the white shrouded sky.
Animal musk absent
from the pelts of boughs



                                    Penetrate
                                    the white of anger,
                                    a gluten-like fat.
                                    Nodules that line my throat



Enter the white
amnesiac hive,
not honeycomb- or yolk-
yellow. Beads
swarm, then—shingling,
a migration of pine needles



Cool the number of damp beads in this morning’s wind, smell the leaves and
woodstuff it edged around and bore into all night; no one saw. A stalk of tree branches
rocks behind the porch.