At its center is a tree
which wraps the garden
in its entirety.
The roots of it run deep,
some say to a molten core
while some insist they exit the other side
to suck the juice of a Southern Cross
and that its sweet and sour blossoms
on this respiring side of dust
reach and bloom beyond the north pole star
and meet the ends of far in parts we’ll never know
even as we wake or break to give or take
right here and now in time and space
the bait of love, or snake.