I am a stump of the old woods,
my ballads sung by bleached rings
and the spikes of a splintered kerf.
You cannot see me, but here I am:
I am the myths bonding books,
the subdivision’s frame houses framing
hollow rooms, sixty-five
generations of goshawks fledges
in the space of my body left behind.
I am stump of the old woods:
conks flesh from my girth,
feather moss blanket catching
bits of sun. I am chill.
Lay across me. Measure your breadth