Bark, Archive, Splinter [“Disrespecting private property”]

Bark, archive, splinter

Disrespecting private property

Embargo on couplets

A year without. And to have zero to use against the departed

Lightning throws its hook onto a tree like a digital greeting. A tap and

Dry air turns prismatic. Dissolving acoustic atmosphere from a slack 
background

Whenever a forest has a shyness to perceive its own form and period 

And this is promised too, the unreachable origin

In the span of another night the ground gets even more parenthetical, 
aerated: elastic ease in the loam post-rainfall

Assurance that the siren of tree frogs is for a later disaster

He had once said: Let’s cut this plastic  from the mattress-in-a-box now

With your head on his chest, over his heart, like a jeweller’s loupe

Opening interval. Spalted wood. You said

Listen

For example. Did he not warn you once about a story involving a poultice of wolf lichen, the colour of chartreuse, stuffed in a reindeer carcass 
alongside powdered glass, fatal to meat-eaters, yes, although never to mice nor rabbits. No, never to mice nor rabbits

Where did that queer powder come from? Perhaps from a vacation ornament you threw onto the floor, or from a medieval delusion of glass which 
never ended. It spreads itself along every generation

Tonight, the sky seems so afraid of shattering

And you see how the ecology of this model continues exchanging endlessly

Imagine an intimate talking that takes place across an impossibly prolonged time

–––line

You sent him a link to the work of a photographer, who wrote: For one year, I photographed trees within near my house—the goal to create images from the ordinary and mundane

What makes a tree ordinary

Both beyond and near the threshold of one’s human survival

A short poem or a long poem that writes itself forever, an anatomy of 
suffocating wildness. This pestilential monostich is the perfect vector for

Transpiercing middle ground

Erasing the trees in the space between you and

Perforating this fantasy, an endless mote of a thought still flags and flees; besides, don’t forget those imported chestnuts he once poured into your cupped hands, out of a packet he promised had yet to expire. Each globe radically saturated with strands of ether of white wondrous mould of