There is this large tree outside my window.
Fat, with leaves, it breathes compulsively
Like a beating lung.
The leaves they flap from light to dark,
In the folds in my stomach and the ball of my eye.
The moon is tipped tonight,
A little drunk, a shade too yellow. It appears especially
Distant. My head knocked back, like a fallen thing to the ground,
Too far thrown that I couldn’t possible make it back up.
A petal perhaps, no smaller or thinner or less perfumed.
It seems this tree comes closer; it’ll lean into the window,
Using its leafy hands against the white-chipped-frame
To pull itself in for a small shuffle of leaves,
For a soft blow of wind just close enough to my face
For a kiss.