Hold this tree for me, I’ll be right
Back—Hampstead Heath Sunday
Oaked, fruited with notes of kite
And dock, body of hand-smoothed
Bark and a crisp, mossy finish. So
Many hands have worn this living
Wood, so many lingering fingers
Grasping the limbs and swinging
Swaying, leaving the limbs love-
Slick. The girl doesn’t want to
Climb the tree until she does, then
She never wants to come down.
Oh, hold her by the hips English
Oak, ancient girth, mineralizing
Millenia. Hold her, breathing your
Breadth, her cheek pressed flush
Against you. Held by a tree. You’ve
Heard of tree huggers, but never
Hugging trees? Well wake, up
In the branches where blue-feathered
Birds perch; where, in the distance
Men are disassembling the Ferris
Wheel into cumbersome parts, only
To be rebuilt, restored, rejuvenated,
Where the carnival never ends
But is ever-blown through the treetops
Of finger-tipped oaks—that is if
You’re inclined to climb, or look up,
The rattling, black choke of London
Dissolving as it does in New York,
Peoria, within your own central park,
The swaying skies filled with climbers.