and the final answer
from the sap of the wood
that glues my bones
to an engine oil mirror
and its ticking lamp
corrupting leaves
flashing their veins
in a rusting drainpipe
the forehead's tapped sight.
As green tendrils avenge
the healed clearings
pock marks of ancient ooze
and the ash pot pours
a branch lifts a bucket's handle
a celestial smear coils.
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