The Tree

I.
In the heart of the forest stands a tree
with crooked branches and
scraggly teeth, whose eyes
are daggers, who commands
the crows and carpet moss.

Sometimes I sleep amongst
her roots with fleshy worms
rubbing against my thighs. The damp
nose of a mole poking at my back,
the black soil wedged between my
fingernails, I dream in solitude.

I dream of a bullet and
A belt. A bike. Broken records.
A canopy of blue. A man singing.
A man dying. A parade. Candy. A mother.
Me.

It is the caw of the crows that wakes
me each morning. I slowly dig my way
up through the soft earth, and it falls in clumps
from my hair as I stand straight
and breathe deeply. I can feel
the tree's eyes piercing my back
as I part its branches and stumble
out into daylight. It knows
I will be back tomorrow.

II.
Today, there is a man nestled
in the branches, asleep with the
nose of a mouse poking
out from his cupped hands.
He is snoring softly, like a train
in the distance, like a chainsaw
or jackhammer muffled by the haze
of summer. The tree is a hammock,
its branches swaying as the man naps.

I wonder if we dream the same,
the man and I, or if he dreams
of hickory and scotch, of maple
and meadow, of mice and men.

I sing to him softly as I sleep
in the soil below.

III.
Termites have taken to the tree,
gnawing at it from the inside out.
The crows are quiet and the man
is now a permanent resident.
I can tell the branches are breaking
under his weight.

Tomorrow, I will put it out of its misery.

IV.
Ten parts gasoline
One part match

The fire pulsates late into the night