To embarrass a lone monk
she fills herself with oak.
He staggers and 

despite everything (which strives to be
nothing) 

can’t deny the ecstasy of dwelling
in scents of bark, sap, and
blossom. Before he can steady 

his breath, she pours leftover contents
of the moon 

into his mouth—pure soma, no
rhubarb substitute will due. But it’s the heat
from her enabler’s hand
he can’t resist.