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.
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 -