You told me you adored me from your grove of oak trees,
surprised me with a hastily scripted pornography of oak trees.
Your feet press the clutch, hands turn the throttle, of oak trees.
I’m suspended beneath you, anticipating the mileage of oak trees.
I relax, prep for my cameo, mull interviews, lost weekend, red-carpet commentary,
in this green room made from the idea of oak trees.
The ancients studied the rainy mysteries of oak trees,
gave Zeus, Thor and Dagda the lightning principles of oak trees.
Your arms are the commercially interrupted biography of oak trees,
your thighs the folklore and studio-lot mythology of oak trees.
What are lost dogs, drowned kittens, to the leafless middle age of oak trees?
Sciatica has no sexual side-effect once we undress ourselves, a pair of oak trees.
Remember, Saint Columba apologized to the forest from his church of oak trees.
St. Brendan stripped his boat of skins, clever pre-Columbian, a mariner of oak trees.
You’ll speak to me in the many Englishes of oak trees,
talk me easily into being tied to the headboard of your bed of oak trees.
Petrichor is experienced most acutely beneath the morning shade of oak trees.
Take care horses, cattle are not poisoned by acorns grazing near stands of oak trees.
You are the food, fuel, fiber, feed, and reclamation in our agronomy of oak trees.
You are my fate sketched in constellations found only in an astronomy of oak trees.
I’ll tattoo my name in channels, canal the small of your back, and you’ll leave
your mark on me, with ink made from the bolt-struck bark of oak trees.
Woodpeckers, warblers, jays and creepers tap an ornithography of oak trees.
But who knows what secrets go undisclosed in the autobiography of oak trees?
