It grew at that slant
alone, down there
beneath the cordons
of pitch pines
some lapse in definition
the trunk state—
the bristled shot branch
deposits its blossoms through branches.
The parts have no proportion why not?
They cannot be counted why not?
They make the thing whole?
It grew at that slant.
Tints flashing up
from the buds
from the scaling off
barks, sap in the germ-slots of cones.
It had to stoop to come up.
A thing can’t be saved from its parts?
It had to be blunt.
It grew at that slant.
And blooms back up in the branches.

Emily Wilson, “Prospect”, in Micrographia