Serpent Box

It begins with the intricate branching, the sound of them, humming, and how the light seems to hold them in clouds, the dark reticulation, of hide, and how the shadows ebb, to give the impression that Relativity is indeed general, and their brittle coarseness of oak spindle fingers, the browning and the turning of the lobes, how crevices open like cuckoo-clocks, where sometimes wooden birds take refuge in nests, dried grasses and broken twigs, the hair of people, lint, feathers, an odd piece of twine, fibers ever more fine, hinting at intricacy, affirming, the unfathomable, ever reducing the incredible, shrinking man, to greater depths of mystery, filling the universe with stars, beyond measure, beyond reach, beyond comprehension, beyond the hillside, where an oak, clings, an oak, beneath which stands another, softer version of tree; a manufactured vastness, following, a hat-sized planetarium, I wear, to hold myself together, a sea…

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