among the trees
bristling with murder,
i stand, like nimrod,
ineffectual and thick.
but that’s where comparisons
end.
i have no want for heaven,
no use for temperamental cranks.
like whitman, i worship the spread
of the great...me!
and them, nattering
in the branches
about my big feet and smelly hat.
that’s all the liturgy i need.
2.22.21