21

A man stands in good boots
On solid earth, feet planted,
And looks upon a maple.

Each abstract, each aspect
Of each abstract, somewhere
Concrete, somewhere housed.

The maple is housed inside
The man and grows from the
Creamy red soil of his brain.

It is rooted in the spine and
Its ghostly branches grow
from the frontal cortex, softly.

The man sways, and the tree,
In a wind without co-ordinate,
A flash of power in darkness.

And the earth is willing itself
In them, its coruscating shapes.
But of the mind-tree, the image

Between them, we may say
It is not a shape of earth,
It is only a ghost of a potential.