Switchblade

Switchblade

Fog evaporates
With the stinging heat
Of ultraviolence.

Droplets of amber
And sap bleed to
Creep like centipedes

Down the branches
And trunks
Of rubber tree forests.

So the fog is gone
As the sun stabs
Dawn into the woods.

Oxygen is sunk in
From the outside
Like golden gore.

Gas from monolithic trees
Sublimates into
Sweet sharp cigar smoke

With the strokes
Of ember splashed
Paintbrushes.

When the switch is stressed,
the blade does the rest.

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