Ancient oak
excavated to the center,
like atriums built by men to house gods
and god-like men. Look closely
as ants on arterial highways gnaw
the crumbling cavity
and tunnel upward
to where the leaf-light has gone gray
without dusk, and the tree, now
a pulsing core of tremble and rust—
sawdust sanctuary.
I stare into the canopy, try
to measure mortality and chip
away at the dead wood,
know I too sustain infinite hollow
places, so I press concrete
into each wooden chamber to hush
the buzz of mandibles boring to keep
the light from leaving. Soon
they will surface, will thread up my limbs,
and when I feel their stings, I will part
my lips, I will invite them in.