Beef up the tree in my chest and shove
internet, love, eschaton
out as ejecta,
leave a crater riddled
with cenotes full of black catfish,
their barbels my tongue
so I can taste
the task ahead. Its halitosis,
sulfuric broccoli burps. So I can
go to work. Work for
peanuts. Get worked up. Work
on myself. The good work
is a work in progress.
It won’t be worked out.
Or it will. In the end. Focusing
on language speeds up time, works to
remind me of what? I breathe
into an apple tree,
the apple tree
breathes into me.
It’s so simple. And small. It hides
in the folds of the brain
and won’t be coaxed out
with a treat, even if
the reward is complete comprehension.