to measure the dark, to measure the lemon,
the frost, crack
the swivel in the cart at rest, in the dark
marooned leaves mulch beneath snow
so no now own
a wood slab divorced from a tree
displays bare insides
forthright as an organ
with no covering
bald without remorse:
it could be smacked
dampened, worn to shred,
losing tie to any living trunk
run nut dilapidated as it’s
angel angled ever so gently
against a wall like a picture
one never intended to hang,
a perpetual tentative,
an almost in-motion, a stance
frozen in transit.
