1. The Second Floor.
From where she begins two ropes are lashed
To diverging trunks making washing lines for linens
Above a riot of weeds.
She ascends to an atrophied branch finished in a dragonhead,
From thence to those pinnacle twigs holding their leaves
Up and away from the sodden soil.
Her root burrows 'neath this language of stone and brick
Which forms my room.
I know her seasons of glory and of work.
2. An Adjoining Room at 3am.
But I must confess that she is a different animal at 3am,
A static silhouette encumbered by breeze.
No more the warm bodies of tits flock to choir,
No more the majestic wood-pigeon haunts her glossy corridors.
Ach! She is become a dark museum
Sometimes bearing a wind-wrought shadow caught,
her light defeated.
She is existent.