A tree branch sleeps
in a green blanket,
orphaned, anti-social,
unaware the storm’s been ceded
by a fresh start,
a tired peace.
Her history amputated
from root to tip,
thick leaves balded
by a wind’s insistent visit,
the familiar abandons her peeling skin
baptized diseased by
the hands of human eyes—
a lazy dishonor.
If you touch the crown
along her jagged outline
she bites.
Exile is an unkind breath
of sin and hot water,
a hurricane’s twin.
CLAMOR 