I.

Your sins, random in youth,

form a lattice in time—

you sense the warp and weft

of its frame, a congruence

of branches and bones,

misplaced vines and nerves:

a template of your life emerges,

a blighted map leading

to a hollow under the roots.

II.

A scold of jays bursts outward

from your crown, their voices

scattered in the evening sky—

leaves cascading

from a harried canopy

like hairs falling

from an old man’s head.