Purple Passage

What makes a tree become a bush,
Diversify at the root and push

A dozen stems to sun
Instead of one insistent trunk

That might become the antidote
To bushes just like this, to rote

And writhing in the ground
(Like roses wrapped around

A vine), that might become a wire
To the light, a sort of spire

To the god of wood, instead
Of all these random heads

That populate cathedral
Pines (like praying people).

But that’s the point. Just
What uncompromising dot of lust

Wants the sky so much that it will
Sacrifice its sons to fill

A tiny two-inch radius
Of sun with the naive trust

Of buds, with an overwritten,
Twisted, grassroots bulletin

Which, almost by mistake, makes
Forests, groves, and brakes

Just to get a single rose,
And then reaps everything it sows?

February 24th, 1988, 3–5 PM, Bedford