Where the smoke doesn’t thicken much;
where the baroque dry leaves of a crafty matriarch,
corpopulenta, cannot even make the smoke
which feigns talent in the Mata.
Not even the baroque stone, more injured than cowering,
from when smoke becomes a miserly cashew tree.
Where also the smoke thickens little;
where it cannot even thicken by some worry,
as much as the empty air cannot dizzy
the threads of the tree that can, unwoven.
Where however, because the baroque stone cannot,
it can essentially rear up, one stem.
One stem, but very different than a coconut tree
incapable of going to the linemaker by rearing up.
One stem, better than a plumb line of a palm tree,
of a palm tree column, lacking foliage.