I have bought 5 yoke
of oxen to mow the unruly
hair of the dead body
out back where the vultures
gather: leaves from last
year’s disappointment,
the stumps that refuse
digging and flogging and all
other forms of affection.
If I put my arms around
the tallest oak and kiss
the dark root, eat the splinter
bark that splits the tongue.
If I lay down in the field
and turn my eye to branch
and sky. Oh taste and see
that the tree is good and lives
deeper beneath than above,
grows like a secret in the dark.