A tree thinks knot
like we think kneel.
Falling leaf sneeze
and the old oak hip
turns in the midnight
breeze below zero
lights out beneath
full down comforter.
We hurly-burly reach
out akimbo with hug
be underground root
dew moist sensation.
The tree sheds sorrow
and we take a shit
no shave no shower
ready for near wind
’twill blow us off face
of our ease no stress
as we paddle out
absurdly, wildly.
Out about and look back
the trees up on the beach
waving hysterically our
free roots touching salt.
The Coming of the Toads 