Let there be trees. Enormous trees
on river banks, that speak with white noise
of insects and owls, hurling their tenor
at the moon floating out of a silo,
held high by willows building vacancies that
rock the orb weaver and her ball of children
who will spill like good omen
over uncircumcised hearts
and skin of ripe pears, in the pause of light.
I twirl jasmine in my fingers
Hold hummingbirds in my hands. Undress
your mantis body bound by human husk —
while crayfish shift in fined silt
and ochelli blink this poem at you.