Tryst

I gave myself an internet free day yesterday.

I potted house plants.

There are two weeping cherry trees in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. They are all twisted and ancient. They look like mirrors of each other. Like you could press them together.

They look like old lovers. Mattresses with the shapes of their owners pressed permanently into them.


Tryst 5/13

The weeping cherry is a body wrapping itself over itself
            it's lonely warmth makes it forget the taste
            of saliva the smell of armpits memory makes it twist
            makes it bloom sad - deep inside pink
            it has seen its share of meals - seasons - blood

The weeping cherry has never touched the ground
            its branches fall to the calf - soft hem catching
            the breeze as it walks over subway ventilation
            purring against thighs knees
            all knobby bending against railings like lovers

The weeping cherry is a cast of a body reclining on a body
            entwined in sex act - engorged
            the lover long vanished - would fill all spaces
            where one branch seems smoothed out hollow skin
            pressing on the air like an old man's arm on glass -