We call it knowledge first to be
nice, then superstition
if it’s theirs, then demonic if
it means anything changes.
Remember the Tree of it, how
dangerous, how nothing stays
in its place once you know
feathers drop symmetrically
so the skimmer doesn’t fly in a
circle. The very idea
of its place is the
forcing of facts into a philosophy
someone is paying to maintain.
The moment the sugar
crystal surrenders to syrup out
of sheer curiosity
it starts to rebuild again. It
dries a small city on the knife.
Lilacs are massaged along the
fence by windy hands.
You can see them give and moan
from their fingers.
This is what they told us we’d
die from, wasn’t it
—love, teeth first in the pinnate
leaves, then the hickory
chewing on its lip lies to us
again. How after dying it unfolds.
