I see reflections of insanity

in window-glass: yard shadows coalesce: dis-

tended fruit depends from every tree: out of emptiness

I conjure cardiac anomalies—

tortured branches twist: my wrist-

pulse is percussive (blood and gristle in a fight

for width): gate bang’s a whip-smart gust

of yesterday’s excessive trust in wit—

I pace, believing in infinities

of cherry trees: their wounds ooze sap—a soft-

barked army, waiting

for the ax—but underground, their roots commune

my solitary cell contracts: window bars resemble

railroad track—

in a locked room, my head rests

against dead wood: I will, when orchard noises

cease, send to the city for seed.