Apple Tree Bad Time

I want no more than my tree
Which froze and compelled
And paralysed me.

Silent silhouette of dead apple tree,
Complicate all, identify me.
Simplify self,
Black claws,
Sharp, black, clotted veins,
Random unpredictable incongruous,
Running unstoppable,
Like the big dirty black
One-leg-hanging-behind,
Speeding spider,
Suddenly still on my face
Rearing up, six legs behind, one hanging, dragging dead,
Compelled by fear
Like eyes on the pipe
Before the quiet crack of iron on bone simultaneous slap of skin.

Tree, hacking me in two with just enough to be seen,
Illumined comfort murdered by paralysing optical venom.
Assurance of touch lying absent from moment
And the things that crawl inside
And among it
Resuscitate, re-animate,
With pinching, nipping
Branches with no other purpose
But to suck some blood, start some itch,
Or exercise tiny jaws built to penetrate with no remorse.

I want no more than my tree
Which froze and compelled
And paralysed me.

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