Ficus

When they said, "like searching

for flowers in a fig tree," they meant

in vain. The embarking on,

the sap we find in our finger grooves,

a certain parse petalessness

like an empty room and the allure

of a life unlikely. Not growing younger

but the negative space

of the unmade up mind,

and those modest, figless self-embraces,

just how nice it sounds to be lonely

when you are not.

To be fair, the trees do flower

and every town is waiting to unfold

into the one in which you still live.

But the fruit is both

product and prolonged. The wasp door,

the sappy tongue loll, the hairless disguise.

The other kind of not-caring, before

the caring too much, before this one.