By the river, certain trees
warp and twist, spread and stretch
with lust for sunlight too ripe
to ever fully consummate.
This one sprawls as if crawling
to escape its own roots. The sheen
of tough old river can’t dissuade
this creature from evading
its commitment to the earth.
Not even you, more infinite
than sky, could ever persuade it
to resume a normal tree-form.
Yes, I called it a creature
because it looks self-created,
as we’ve often aspired to be.
Today the famous regatta
has formed to cross the river
in a shark-swarm of little sails.
This event impresses no one
but participants: hack sailors
so unskilled that Moby-Dick
could sink them with a single
lash of his tail. Should we wait
until dusk for the fireworks?
In the dark the tree might relax
and straighten to ease its limb-span.
But seeing it silhouetted
by the rage and pop of fireworks
might excite us to flop naked
in the public and pubic grass
and rival the spectacle with one
of our own. The tree might endorse
our steamy gestures, or maybe,
despite the spangles in the sky,
it will just look away, absorbed
in its private tangle of self.
