We open up with gunning saws
timber deeps.
Slabs of beech
reveal along the laid-out cord
a bodily flowering
gaudy as a peony,
thick as cream, buff of honey
the thick, dark tongues of bees must have described
guaranteeing sweetness a means to thrive.
A dense, secret opening
up the unlit cylinder.
Sunlit black etch
marks every petal
a scrawling edge
the finger
settles.
The smoothness of dense timber
and pulse of rising sap on every sense.
The crime.
The chiding bloom.
The innocence.
