Today I saw a tree on the sidewalk
with black bark
and branches that became less specific
the higher up it went.
It reminded me of a painting I saw once.
I didn’t say anything, but I thought about you.
Remember the time we heard the singing woman?
We thought her lofty voice was God
and tired to hold her song in our pockets
like the petals we used to pull from flowers.
We should’ve just smelled them and moved on.
That was a long time ago, I guess.
I see these days you fancy cigarettes
and sex in back alleys,
the grand suckling of no strings
music without movement,
while I tie myself to a to this bland stick
and learn to write my words without fire.
The world still remains.
I guess the only thing we changed was us.
I hope this finds you well.