The tree is alive. I hear it
through the murmuring of crickets,
its voice. Some magic
turning branches into limbs
etching a strange mouth
on its rough trunk.
Upon recognizing the scent
of a flower, the tree moves.
How the wind disturbs it.
Street lamps tint my skin orange
on a midnight walk, past gutters
glistening like silver fish.
I touch the wood, its uneven surface,
the grains sticking to my palm.
I feel age. How it sheds bark.
My senses were meant to find these things.
It is good how nothing is certain.