Postmortem innocence oozing in resin,
your wound lies bare,
smelling sweet of blood and sinew torn asunder,
with circles of seventy mocking silent
sawdust dreams—
confetti drifts down upon conscience
in deafening whines,
as candle-laden limbs
cradling each other in powder-puff glory
flail against bark,
betrayed by power
vacillating on vicarious visions,
stunned by vulnerability,
which snaps,
exploding—
immortal tower far-reaching to eternity
pinned prone—
deadweight;
magnificence stumped,
yet ignobly rooted to the hungry worm
spiraling down the dark labyrinth
of understanding—
O, Pine!
far better the lightning strike,
the beetle kill,
than hot wet tears dropping
beads upon your circles,
reflecting the bitter smell of coerced metamorphosis.