The cypress trunks glide
From the silvered glass,
Maybe as liminal celestial beams;
They rail to the sky, through the canopy,
As if they had actually penetrated our cloud cover,
And their knobby knees
Are the only earthly projections.

The matter is that there is real sunlight;
The silver is barky,
But that bark ends at my ankles;
And the knees are not merely
Earthly projections, but silver also.

I could be in love, but in suffering,
Or vice-versa.