Mock a tree by sitting under it reading. Show it the possibilities of life
in another’s hand, show the book what stagnation
looks like for those who never leave their home town.
Feel smug in your ability to stretch a metaphor so far
as to want to nail the book to a tree and call it
“How I feel coming back home to being unloved after loving you”.
If love is a performance art, then so will my unloving be!
In a way,
I mean. I am rootless now,
Full of poetry - devoid of birds.