the oak

the sky marks 
the oak with its 
spiraling voltage;
clouds smash things 
upstairs; my mother 
would scream at me 
get out of the storm!
but even now I am 
wandering further 
into it, disappeared
like a lamp-post
am thinking still 
of the wind’s clean
erasure, no jacket
heaven's script 
above argon-lit, 
no, there are no
excuses for being 
foolish in passion
for wandering under
the pointy sky and 
golfball hail
but if imagining
a kiss, enough,
reason in unreasonable
risk, don’t trust 
me, the world is
full of human fools
ask the oak, old, steady 
who nudely wears it 
but still reaches up.
​