The Question

While needles of the evergreen practice a windy chaos, heads of snarled hair; something in the tree longs for old age; bald brown knobs of skull without subterfuge; but it continues with its greedy resinous sexual odors. The odors rise against one another, spurting away from the scaly bark. Along its fingers the tree holds out microscopic traps. Popping bullets of sunlight crack into the subliminal orifices, and the tree thinks, “How exquisite. Is this love?”