Barren Grounds: we walk on hypotheticals,
the as-if of fingers knotted and bent,
studded with age-rings as they wander
warped across the tracks.
These roots are first to sprout after fire,
they're set with the same tessellates
that line the tall trunks, but down here
half-furred, half-glossy,
trashed outposts of the dividing line
where the cells create.
Barren Grounds: dream trees out of knuckles,
draw new digits from old joints.
No need. Pale feelers already test the air,
redden, harden, bifurcate,
fresh tenderness of horned branchlets
springing surprised in yellow clumps.
And then a single leaf,
a tiny claw of breath, jut getting a bead
on the infinite cycles of atmosphere
as the main trunk cracks.
Barren Grounds: my fingers buried deep
in this quartz might grow,
might make belief.