So: you’ve given up on correspondence
and now talk on the phone instead.
The other day you finally made sense
when you said, “a tree’s a tree; now
let’s go to bed.�

Have you ever seen the sun light
upon a spray?  A single branch, spread
up and up and then—chosen?  How
might we mince

words no longer?  How might we apply
the opening of our ends?  Let’s go
ahead: no matter the stylus, no
matter the wax:  a mark’s a mark
and will be read.