At the end of it all

rests the trees.
Time stands just
as requested in the company
of pines. My steps
are holy circles, hewn
deep and echoing;

I listen

as my ten-thousandfold world system shivers
like a wheel barrow child
barreling down a grassy slope, arms stowed
against chest. Bullets rain
dully, as dumb as porcelain and
half so strong.

The tongue

is peppery like wallpaper;
the breeze high-kicks
the air as she presents her rain.
Kisses like annular paw prints,
crickets crack like lightening trees,
a world of plenty mystified—

& at the beginning of it all

was the pine. The lone silver
trunk cast stark against
vast neon suns, visionary
and hounded
tacit ad infinitum;
so sacredly nameless

from this nescient human mind.

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