The bedside book and the breeze in the branches
Of the son of the tree that owns itself
Clove to the root like the Babylon ruins
Liquor in the glass and the piercing bluebell
Emily's ear breaks a human heart
With nowhere to go but the places inside
The bark of the birch and the mark of the bite
Beneath the leaves of the tree that owns itself
And the nightshade bloodshot eyes
Red as the dye from the cactus bug
And the minutes fold like the time between twins
Like the seed spun toward the fallow floor
And the men hang their heads with the bend of the bough
Of the son of the tree that owns itself
And the light rushes in
Soft as your skin under mosquito net
