These are not branches, this is Tree

Each of my eyes
forgets the other.
I can only hope 
for the same effect
between the I plural.
The nose forgets
the nostrils.
Each dyad 
done well
crops out 
the memorial
multiple marks.
A sketch, 
therefore,
can go
beyond scratches
to the point
of picture.
When this blend
bends the universe
to that single verse
the cosmos feels
like a single taste 
of a chaste blur
to which
some people
nod.