I imagine a stag, legs like wires
beneath him, begging to be made

taut by bristling bits of brain.
Through black membranous maze,

his eyes move, his thoughts move,
he is cold. Next to him the silver

tree emerges overnight, erupts
through ground with its coating

of thin white hairs, its needle-slit
inscription: Were I to swell distortedly,

life pushing itself under me
in lumps, I would ask for my

fluids to remain concentrated,
thick, identifiable compounds

inside which shock-currents
would never circulate.