Winter Landscape

so if he wrote with his blood
and exhausted the supply
he would certainly be dead;
much as using enamels
to create a path through landscapes
from black to white to red,
hoping to design a less wounded past,
he languished there instead.
and in heroic manner he drew
the unseen feminine roots,
which sank directly into brown soil
near where the distorted male tree,
agitated in a sexual fever,
grew heated into a boil.
two separate twigs, stretching, almost touched
until their final recoil.