we meet where our branches fork
and our branches forking meet
to the rot of fruit and flower
and a head hung in laughter
which is anywhere forkings meet

not discussing kings i suppose
but laughter slick as sleet
and as oilcloth recoiling
to arabesque and serenade
windblown mirrorshades
of rot and flower following
the swell and broken swallow
of shallows rising well