I said to a willow tree;
you are a green haired woman
with hands growing so wild
birds slip through your fingers.
Too bad your feet are tangled up in stone
She said to me;
you are a shifting trunk
with no leaves to grace your limbs
You move in a permanent fall.
Too bad you are blown around so easily
The short film clip shows
an eight year old girl climbing onto a truck
for a midnight ride to fields of jasmine.
Already an old woman creeps
inside the child’s spine all night
as she untethers tiny stars that loom
like dreams about to be released
until crushed in a burlap bag.
Bossman stands by with his hurry-up stick,
conversation loose as sand
pouring from one hand to the next,
“Sometimes children need to be tapped.”
Far away in a crystalline lab
a perfume artiste noses through
liquid flowers ambergris musk
to compose a master scent.
There must be no hint of any hand
that could pluck away the night.