He stands to stay dry

Beside a bur oak’s

Taut, tendoned trunk

Whose black branches twist

Helixically out

And, aged, bow groundward

.

The falling water’s

Not what bothers him

It’s nine o’clock so

He swallows and walks

Toward a building

That gives nothing back

.

He sits there, stays dry

And won’t see the sky

Till black night’s toads croak

Cracking tongue-whips at

Mosquitoes drunk on

The wine of the quick

.

Tomorrow will find

Sooty roots shooting

Up his cracking spine

Where he’s warm again

And in oaken skin

Extends his tendons