a glass tree grown against its own habit — not a crown but a line that never stops climbing, shedding arms that curl up and open at their own height while the leader carries the climb on past them. the wheel of succession, stood upright.
i
the same tree set turning, scored to no occasion — a song written with no ending. a tree that climbs, a turntable that spins, a song that moves through its phrases and comes round again: three things all saying keeps going, folded into a loop you can watch forever.