Fractal Oak

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

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