the heart is much too complex a thing for loving twigs
cannot hold them within
till the dust of their form is scattered
by a carefree wind

anyone caught in more or less
than a bushman’s recline with a twig
will no doubt incur the wrath
of The Botanists
the thin glasses wracked upon their noses

you may however hold a twig
in admiration
twirling it between finger & thumb
it will spin like a spinning top
on a lolly counter
two dead end limbs
pronged for the water diviner’s gift
the twig’s need for water
dragging the human along

snapping it

& the air is filled with the dead wood scent
of the forest

but you cannot love such a thing
there are the moral issues

I discard it


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