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This cedar above me

sways with the winds’ chants,

and spreads its needled fingers

to drop a crown upon my head.

One scaled finger slips into the fountain,

drowning in a stream of life.

The whispered chanting stills.



I am at the center of a kaleidoscope

spiraling around this swaying trunk

which spins on a dead mote of rock

in a black and indifferent universe.

We dream of shifting colors in this night,

but it is alone—and in it, we are alone.



Tangled alone in the roots,

marrow and xylem pulsing

in a wasted struggle,

what am I if not this tree of life—

sap bleeding from the crown,

umbrage scaled and weathered,

staring into the sun and moon alike?

We channel the secret syllables

slowly written on the dark by dawn,

with silent weeping for their taste.

The light comes, and they are erased.



A face wreathed in curling flames

leans in to kiss my eyes.

This place was empty before us;

the wind will make it empty again.

I desire the end.