Carl Phillips

Everything All of It

The understory here seems a mix
entirely of Virginia creeper, wild
parsley, and what looks to be mint

by its flower, but it’s not mint, I know
            it’s not. That’s just appearances. Like
                        those mounted antlers that, in the right

light, cast a shadow that can look a
            lot like one animal chasing another,
                        though in play or for survival, it’s

hard to tell. Or the way detachment
            can resemble confidence, a form of
                        bravery almost, until the weather shifts,

and there’s just the usual wrecked
            cathedral of the mind, pierced over
                        and over again with fear and sorrow,

what feels like sorrow. Less by design
            than circumstance, my corruptions
                        have been mostly private. I’ve always

loved how—unlike some trees that,
            having grown too tall and therefore
                        too heavy, fall over, uprooting themselves

—oak trees at a certain age begin
            routinely losing, on purpose, some of
                        their branches: the roots, so much older

now, can only bear so much weight. I
            get that. What our lives amount to
                        doesn’t have to be the same as what

we make of our lives. I like to think
that’s true. If I tell you most of it’s
pretty much been dream, it’s because I have to.