The tree outside the barbershop

was struck down

sometime last

night, its Siamese

boughs

wrenched from

each other

in violent

divorce and

the weaker

flung to the

ground—

someone, some

official someone,

has hedged

the afflicted area

with yellow

cautionary tape,

as if to fence in

the tragedy, or

demarcate

the location of

a corpse—

and misting

from the open

wood is

fragrance:

xylem and

phloem and

floral guts,

the aroma of

a pure body.

This poem was originally published in Portland Review on June 9, 2020.