Drones out brittle, weary invocations, the certainty
                                      of fruit now distant as the first word
On God’s tongue. Such disarray. So much leaf-rot,
                                       leaf-loss, leaf-ache heaped up. No
Petiole, no rib, no vein, no heart unscathed by know-
                             ledge of its plight. Apprenticed to a sleep
Purged of epoch, a terrain seasoned with what remains
                                     unnamed when alphabets crowd up
Earth-logged, victims of predictable defection. No
                    word, no phrase avails (exists?) to make whole
Language which drops everything soon or late while
                                we try to beat back decay like mongrel
Ghosts of fleshly (fleshless?) selves. Out of enclosure,