The tree which untangles at the far end of the noisy meadow stands apart from evening, does not own itself.
Birds come to it and go because it is like another because they are like others.
Free of the sun which is said to tangle other branches, it is free of the gossip of likenesses, and the stars do not sit in it. The fruit of this tree, if it has any, is not seen in the unaided light, and the eye which sees it loses need of mirrors, becomes the eye-shaped slit in the mask which an animal that comes out now to hunt for sustenance is. All rights reserved.