This animus is braced against the occasional.
Tomorrow, it will be morning,
light stretched on the other side.
The wanderer in the bark traces
sleep like cinnamon.
Breath falls away.
Shaping birds shape
each branch. Animus
dances like a fire in the bark,
his roots in empty sand;
he melts himself into cosines,
semi-concentrics, light in a narrow
bowl. Bending lower, his feet dance
the family dance. We shall see,
we shall see how animus hangs
his square face in the long tree,
quiet as Easter.