On the way to the lecture we stopped to climb a tree. Made of beech.
Made of itself. Covered with names and ants and cupping a small living dish

of rainwater between four pillars. The letters of my name are common. I scan the bark
for them until I release myself from the name. More precious

than the slow motion of our hands to unfasten the ants from our fabric?
There are two species of ants in the canopy and sometimes one type of ant carries the other

(ungently). The light reddens (gently) the abdomen of the ant who carries. In passing,
a groundskeeper describes us as he describes the tree. Weeping and in use.

Which is a term of appreciation? Which is a term of proximity?
In illustrations, a thin line or a curved line or a broken line can illustrate softness.

This is a curved line. The branch curves down to a smaller curved branch.
I don’t know whether it’s weight or training that curves the old beech. The branches

are smooth, wide writing desks. I try to thin my steps over the limbs. Over the living dish.
Over the names of young people. Yes. Beauty is a labor. Yes. A commodity.

(It’s too much.) The tree is lonely.