bones like branches, rough and ragged. thin and twisted. reaching upward, stopping abruptly, turned to the side. a wrinkle in their map to the sky. dull green leaves, torn and shredded, like broken glass. the color of grass in the winter time. dead on the outside. alive. somewhere. do you know what i’m saying? maybe, if you dig deep enough. but the soil is made of rocks. small, losing opacity. old. a million tiny teeth. chewing at the tree, gnawing at my bones, stuck, solid. never moving. a platform for this us to grow from. to live and die from. maybe something in between.