The tree wears a brace.

Summer is only half southern.

Among the roses

atoms splitting.

I reach through torn air.

Past it –

a gummy planet.

My life will live on

without me.

Hair and schedules

are only shells.

Nothing stands well

against the climate

of persnickety evil.

The tree’s chi sinks into

its roots.

The roses,

meanwhile,

fire their hopeful signals

at random.