I write of the tree
so it will not die.
This tree, proud
with gleam, what
once was bare

now alive, as is
my mind, and the
valves that carry
the wine ink
through my urn.

Please forget
I ask of my forget,
hold the ris de veau
of bitterness, that rose
in the heated night

sometime, the taste
singing with breath,
be alone with the hard
like steel in a kiss,
bone broken but

unbent. I write
of fire, so it will not
live. No longer can
a word burn without
touch having it.