Have you watered the tree with your own saliva?
Bled into the flower bed, nails torn off,
plasma roiling into the manured dirt,
eddies of earth and dust and rust-red liquid,
freed at last from imaginary boundaries,
mixing in the pot, a tellurian elixir.
Have you lost your breath on the mountainside?
Shed moisture into the cold air, soft tissue hurting,
lungs churning with ice-clad blades,
whirlwinds of water and frost and black-blue liquid,
rushing at last from imaginary boundaries,
mixing in your body, a mercurial solution.
Have you dripped your sweat on the asphalt?
Spilt salt on the black tarmac, skin itching,
cells walls circling amidst tenuous flows,
pools of sediment and acid and clear liquid,
sloughing at last from imaginary boundaries,
blending on the ground, an alkaline potion.
If you haven't, watered and lost and dripped I mean,
then don't talk to me of ownership,
of justice meted out or withdrawn or broken,
debts owed or treasures gained,
memories forgotten.