Inside the corked and grooved bark,

you feel startled at the wound

low on your flank.

 

It is clean,

down to the wood,

and causes your entire side to feel open

and weak,

red reeds of pain shooting

eighty feet into the air. 

 

Amber bleeder,

fingers stove deep into the earth,

knuckles cracking.

Rocks and clay

shoved up under your nails.

 

You are branches in slow circuitous sweep

tickling the belly of the sky

and shredding the clouds. 

 

You are a rising buzz,

a flowing

hard pressure

against the dome of sun

so bright

so warm.