Two Trees

I am drinking a tree. Not exactly.

Not as exactly as the branches

lay, self-sectioned, over the round space

they had shaded, till workers

piled them at the curb. Not as exactly

as I planted it, seventeen years

past. A fig. The map

of its leaf. Before leaving

last summer, I gathered

some fruit, froze it. Left much,

a last harvest, disrespected.

My breakfast this morning

was figs, blended with other fruits,

and the phone image of a tree

my friend said his great friend

had loved. That is, what is left of it:

inexact taxonomy, sticks

on a brow of ground.