Influence

The tire has a nail in it. The head is grooved
and glistens. It’s been run over a million times.
The nail’s point is safe inside the tube. The hard
air comes blasting past it’s throat.

A tree has grown up through the fence.
It’s bark is scarred with a quilt of diamonds
and the metal still runs out of both sides.
You imagine being buried in a tree.

Your brain is nearly the shape of your skull.
Your hands are cast in the space that isn’t your work.
Your heart is not blood, your blood is not love.
You’re neither nail nor fence. You’re the warp in the wood.