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I am not this tree.

Where did these bricks
come from –

perhaps they were trees
and olive branch

burned

in a santuary window.
As though to throw off

the jack-in-the-box image,
the mouth of an auditorium

the Keynote is the inversion of a ghost

– what do they aspire to?
A tree, a lime –

burning with seeds –

burning in the window.
You do not exist.

You do not place the flowers
on this four-legged

coffee table.

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Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

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