aims to leave but lives to claim.
It runs the tab of a die-hard drinker,
and slippered to the north it bears down,
bursts forth—quietly equipped for its own fires
or season's sawing reasonably unhampered...
From the rock at its root it shoots
stream of fur, has swum in space and time,
appraising earth, he pours back
every moment he aims forth...
through the flowing ears
go rivulets of fur,
to there design a spine
and flail a tail... What does he see, that makes him
in a tree.