Twirling mystic in skirts of gossamer gold–
In the trees—
There like sea-weed monster draped through boughs and static-crisp air,
Tepid, electric-blue air
to drench my tongue,
to spark my eyes electric!
Oh, like neon-soup it torments my cheeks–
The aged and wanton branches, their grasping tentacles,
You empty the tree.
And the world says never mind you sinners touching trees.