Way down inside the rifled depths, (maybe there was a bottle
of milk, the sea at the end of the garden, coming in waves, washing
over me, trees so large their conkers filled my hands. Pine cones
grandiose as bare fists) it outflanks, coming at me when I am least

expecting. Like when I looked to prune her pretty dress of heartened
leaves. They have sprained, are brown-blackened, curdled. One
side of her, inside, branches eaten away by canker, trapped

in the ducts. No longer will they bud in the fullness of a summer.
Can you help to save her, as I hide from the limelight? Can you

look within this fetidness? I slice her thick bark into the cut of new
moons, sharp as a lemon, bitter. I disconnect her shoots, dislocate
those damned spines within. Try to twist shards to rip nettles
to cull deadheads, trail depleted grasses into piles, drag over soil

long roots; they gather undressed in the kindled sun. Arms together
we're nauseated. Leaves lie purged on empty grass. I sit back, sip
my cooled coffee, smell the sweet the beaded gems.