than the Christians' slender
gilded crosses,
but I tend to feel best
that mix of agony
and grandeur
when I'm biting my lip
and passing beneath
the yellowing branches
of a primeval tulip poplar
in the barely-there
newness
of midwestern autumn—
feeling so small,
and yet heavy
for my size,
and always so
piecemeal-divided by
the fractal shadows cast
across my body
on the underside
of this tall,
stoic being that's so
willing to die—
at least
for a little while—
in order to outlive
and outgrow
us all.
