Seven Spillings

1.
A tree is like a tree pattern,
Tracing itself through its tips,
Then letting go;
dead blossom.

You do not know, she says, no,
You have never counted infinity.
Turn yourself out, and start again.

Once I heard birds as leaves hiding,
Dark chords of sound and color drops;
Red, a rusted ground drain spilling.

There is a courtyard, and in it, two trees.
You call it a garden, but this is only a guess.
You must minus 3.

Benjamin Cunningham