5

 
There is an evergreen in Providence
whose needle wins the duel with every leaf
in the library.  Her spine an arrow-sheaf
of thorns.  Her grim patient taproot rends

 
the granite.  Meanwhile the library, collegial,
collects the congealed logic of the leaf-pile
conscientiously.  Bright-eyed scholar-cowboys
squirrel it away (homey arrangement, intellectual

 
corral).  And bookworm-servant, in the sub-
sub-basement, reads on her side.  The hole
in her heart gives back the cavernous whole
the word makes in the world (dub-dub-

 
scriptoria).  The outline of a forearm
lifted to prop a sleepy brow shifts
into the dream itself.  The arm grows stiff,
turns spiny, subdued, arctic, aquamarine...

 
and what the dream unfolds for turning worm
is picture of a little tree, foiled in milky air
and rain – tree lush with frail leafage, shuddering,
stuttering – green tree, evergreen, ever-warm...