I’m always whisked to midnight / by ugly wind.

I think, “It must be she, the tree, standing attentive ...

I suppose I have been this man, regardless of what can be said of me

The tree buds are swelling, and spring emerges

the moths on paper towels are too perfect to move

lying on the smooth wooden bottom / of a drawer, suckling rhythmically at the air

Know the way /hollow openings lead to a surface, the way a girl’s / knees know clutching tree bark will keep / her from falling.