The trees were where the trees were

managing to be, managed–

dreamt up from other countries and implanted

like lies in the ear.  “A tree museum,”

she said and I thought zoo, as my animals

gazed at the weeping ones and ones

for fortage and thought up all the wars they could

plan (gingko bomb, chestnut shot and sumac

trap) beneath such excellent protection.

The cultivated tour ended on a ramp

into the canopy. A sculptor had there fabricated

a nest for bird-lookers and inside it three

eggs large enough to hatch children.  Mine sat

like mother pterodactyls. Mine, fiercely

brothered, at any threat will fly into a thing

barbarous and keen and like me.  I end

wishing for more trees and time beneath

to retreat, to walk back wounds and worries

of infiltration, of what is natural, what

grafted — these contorted knots of mine.

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