A thousand little lights around the rafter twined
Yellow, dark, unseen though upon inspection 
Close proximity 
Evokes the tree from which the beam was made
As well the one who set their life by stars
Sensing yet their body pulse 
In the emulsions of some crawling and confronting bark. 

The lights, more unison than me—while I pretend vitality. 
Legs knotted like a clutching trunk, curve at the knee, ungracefully.

The spine a bough that whacked from a sapling missed 
On the walk
And my sappy arms unsure between palm or fist.

That swaying tower clime—
This breath, the sound of tree-high bristle-branch
Wind-blown, unremembered—
While eye and foot traced stream to anabranch.   

A kind of pallid ash
The weight of me
Lagan on the floor—
Now fluttered all away,
Divining of the core.