After blue poplars.
Frosted fingertips static.
My sketched brief face
Blends into rough trunk.
Around this time,
I would sing to the trees
Like my mother sings:
The icicle drips.
Dodges sun.
Touches the smoke
Of my breath.
Of my breath.
Of my breath.
Earlier, cranial sutures–
Don’t join at the base
Of my estranged skull.
Thoughts blur
In the emptiness.
A random black hole
Woodpeckered
Into my cranium.
Because who else can I be?