Concrete’s Branches

Grit and trembling branches
fork fellow tree tops, 
bottoming out as low
as the concrete glow.
Miss trust? The photo
synthetic approach can
only rust until a sun
goes bust. Bank ruction,
the anti-fragile chaos 
lovers are the hoverers 
at the edge of the blood
stream, lapping and lapping
the losses of those vamped
ired, burning tired lamps,
sucking up whale oil from
people whose songs are
more reliable sources of
faith than any picture,
any stricture, any fixture's
fictive clot whose plot
could not be built.