Truth came early in the throat
a blanched monkey, stout as birth
hellborn and helpless these months
ache like inconspicuous stems
holding grapes filled with echoes.
My pleated lives really feel
cycloptic beasts who, greenish, need
and we’re brained and dying among false
trembling whys. Could nature be our
how, or are we helpless as unbranched
maples lining a driveway we’ve never known
staring upward into now?