Then, by a tree, we come to a stop. I think of impetus as a mysterious intrinsic property. The perseverance of things in themselves. How this tree, for example, persisting in its treeness, will eventually envelop this wrought iron railing. Will subsume all foreign objects into itself, a slow-motion glutton working away in botanical time. A tricycle, a boot, a heart. Teeming ants at the root, stubborn little beads of obsidian, convey the glassy black crunch of certitude. There is lipstick on your teeth. There are parakeets, green with grief. There is a rush up in the leaves, like the esses conspiring together when forgive us our trespasses is whispered by a thousand hushed parishioners.
Tom Velho is a poet from London. By day he teaches Modern Languages & Literature. He has had recent work in Red Ogre Review, Overheard, and Ekphrastic Review. He is a Best Small Fictions 2023 nominee and can be found on Twitter: @velho_tom