Some variants and slant, half-pulled
wound of the tap.

Flared plates of trunk, a foot stalk
with a seed in its heart,

clear sap. As if one stares out a window
to frame a thought,

a sense of mind
that makes you think you know

when you can’t.
What thought burns here?

As if our quiet tomorrow
is caught in sensation

of the trace-root’s
sugaring,

the simple fact
of some erosion

and ecology’s abolition
thin and barren

in February’s little
chrome.