Soft Bark
I.
It starts with a slow growl,
the vocal chords colliding in unison—
what I’ve learned of separation
in a merging of two vehicles
headed in opposite directions—
though our bodies may be close
to engine, to asphalt, to median
we can never fuse to something
we are not—the dogs begin to bark
ingratiating themselves
with the eventual sirens—
it seems one ruptured organism,
all systems in high alert—
ambulance, asphalt, lungs.
II.
& somehow the tree cleaved in two—
carbon deposits of charcoal
newly glazed with fruitless
water—cigarette, abandoned
campsite, anger?
how had the bark been burnt?
was it a slow licking of flame
or immediate consumption?
a trickle of gasoline your mother,
a match your father
as all burning things remind us
we are closer to our own
version of hell than we want to be—
losing will—spreading.