These are the implications of fiction;
an afternoon when I had cut a
budding branch off of that sensual arc
of magnolia, a dual trunk circumventing
the building’s image, self-obscuring
plurality of bruised lotus.  

It would have stood, alien,
in the emptied garbanzo can, how strange is it
to see a long legged foal
still as granite, solitary—
an uncanny beast,
a corporeal chain?
This is the branch’s flowered body, starkly unwelcomed
by its hollow tin vessel.  

Or (and this is stranger still),
the serration blooming on my dresser
would have bled
into a surrounding collage
of objects.
My books, letters perpetuated from some
unknown and archaic source.
The words between covers,
distributed once-privacies or jottings
of a unique portraiture. (It belongs to us now.)
The wood of my desk and of the
floor, a strange meeting of

My room is a resurrection
of limbs.
Tree-scene out the window— light penetrating petals
as they fall gently,
skeins of sun yearning for return
to an origin,
to a sort of mercuric unity.
To the circular lake, I suppose, then,
that lies in the earth’s pit.
A mirrored pupil.
The silence of the liquid iris.