Crepuscular light will not reach this mini tree, pre-
fab and birthed from a plastic bag. And the absence
of fox or skunk, fawn or thrush or the lapidary
wind or blade of river means a sedentary hush
hunkers inside the glass. Slight bend in the tree
where the waterline breaks and bubbles.
It’s a bright kind of sad and will not last.
Like mall arcades and rubber palm trees,
my cousin’s bikinied selfies in Miami.
Glitter in a Mason jar, water that makes it spin.
My boys, like terrible angels, shake it
and a bit seeps out, a watery pout. A world
in our hands and what do we do?
Rile it ‘til all the beauty’s torn loose.