Lemon Tree

Looking out
I cannot gather enough evidence
Why everything in nature
Seems to be a perfect setting.
Like the rose petals that crowd
And yet are concentric, the myena bird
So brown-black in plumage,
And yet crazily streaked in yellow.
The tree filled with lemons
Like yellow-green breasts hanging down
For tiny babies to suckle,
And I, looking at the perfection
Of every form and function
Brokering a gaze, a shot
Of the ambient, that almost like
A spider’s web around a beetle,
Closes in on me. I’m the ogre in the garden.
The anomaly that sits on a chair
Sipping a cup of orange pekoe tea
While nature holds me hostage
To a definition of beauty. I’m just
A chemical reaction at best, wavelength to impulse.
And beauty, it can never crowd
The field of sight, it alludes
Proximities, of what it takes
To make thousands of perfectly-placed
Sculptures, devolve me to
A state of chemical ataxia.