There are trees.
There. Past glass.
Hairy branched tress.
Locks of green tangled.
Green on green dancing.
Her face was a tree.
But only when laughter.
The myth had truth in it.
And also trees.
Swoop of black forewings.
The sky is veined milk.
(Black spines on white ground.
A raven.)
The leaves of the book
smacked her hands.
Caught her in it.
Steeple.
Exuberant spires.
They jettison their boughs.
Insouciant shooting garlands.
Welcome.
Here are trees.
Green glass shifts.
Hum of a beetle.