The limbs of that tree, continuous.
Bent here and there, and again,
Until they are lost within each other.
Their ends do not seem to exist,
But are faded into one another
Under leafy tufts, as though a painter
Sought to mesh nature, and to hide
All things deemed inconsistent with
A stroke of her brush.

I do not know what I prefer.
I want to stand with her,
And knit together all the ragged
Edges of reality into a perfect quilt,
Maybe have a nap and forget.
I also yearn to find the tucked away knots
That tie things together, and bind us ignorant.
I want to pull at them until the
Whole thing comes undone.
Until we've all been turned into
Laughing maniacs turning the *****.