This Vase of Quince Branches You Sent Me

in blossom. On the
kitchen table now.
Taller than me.
Why do I feel

ashamed.
In my warm vest and winter coat.
In tears.
Hands empty at my

side. What are you
for. Standing there as if in
some other country. An
otherwise. Without

past or future.
No logic religion sorrow
thought. Whispering
smoke signals to

morninglight.
Are you hearing each other. The sight of me
is of a thing with
too much heart,

too much—

salmon-pink blossoms brutal with
refusal of
meaning—why
am I

ashamed. Dear
tree,
I have watched
where u welled up and broke skin to

emerge like a disaster
of beauty, yr
tall arms here reach up &
out

differently, cut branches carefully crisscrossed
in the vase to arrange u, to hold u
firm in the
design. And the water

which you draw in at
each white
cut. I struggle
to stand at

appropriate
attention. Yr sweet acrid scent
reaches me
now. Something else

floats in the air
around yr blossoms.
It stares at me.
It keeps on staring. If it’s

screaming
I can’t tell. It’s not domesticated.
The rest of yr tree arrives like a bloodshot eye
in my head. Silence is

stretching. There is less and less
time. I breathe
quietly. I place my hands on my
eyes. If I am a messenger, what is

my message. I fear
it is fruitless. It is unyielding.
It is devoid of
patience. I reach

out. My fingers try for
no damage. But my mind is still here.
It envelops everything.
I think of the invisible stars. I try to

unthink them. I would give that
unthought space back
to yr branches.
Some of yr buds are

darker & swollen.
They have not opened yet.
What is it to open.
What is it to open & have one’s

last time left.
The green is coming. It is pushing from behind.
I can feel the tremor of hanging on.
I have not yet fallen.

How crowded we are on our stalk.