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.