Pinus ponderosa
of the rosy woodflesh:
your butterscotch sap
engulfs the edges
of a charred hole;
your sweet trunk swells
around it, straining
to bury the evidence.
I with my wood-bore
rub against your bark,
looking for the best
place to enter;
the bore bites. I twist
and it begins to hum
as it screws into your heart.
I will take the core,
and a shirred slice of your scar.
I will count how many times
you have burned.