From a manuscript in progress.
each tree sticks itself upward dark into light or light’s the medium
for each to define itself aslant against air saturated with water
pixelated molecules diffusing the already diffused source of light
so few here, so few houses, few on the street, the homeless cyclist
crossed noises crossing the highway, uneasiness tossed
in empty bottles off to the side, infirm gullies underfoot
past the corner sudden quiet, sudden removal from all else
and then there’s each tree, its leafless sticks, some quiver in haze
some gather themselves, rising up into Japanese brooms
(an inventory of the tightly bound, the stiff and ancient)
and there they are, numerous Vs in and above, and one’s own upright
seemingly held, in lower-down lost-in-the-dark conjunction.