The Heads that Bear Survival

You walk around with an aspen nippling out your head,    
and it can't be healthy.      
      
That flies of our condition flock your radiance      
sweet dear must be topped off the glass.      
You quiver down your sultry bits
at the squirrels frisking your nape with small discharge of carbon,      
       
but your brain is heavy in moss,      
and the offshoots of a meta-ethic won't hold in a flash flood.      
       
You crash.      
     
A forge of lightning punctured the mountain-line cloak —
the sisterhood of the mantids and bees and erupting caterpillars, through crystal, all rustling      
as if the aspen almost failed      
and thus your theology.      
       
But only one branch explodes      
after deriving the estimates      
of the lost casino district that aerates from my earlobe.
This was profitable for philosophy in its time.  
       
But it seems a shedded canopy of growth
 
planted the germ of your nature prize,      
despite the path of least resistance
you follow and economic poverty here,      
in a concrete roof.      
       
Critters of the casting vines wild this civility — thought a former town    
with bonds and ceilings  
and a litany of fluorescent suns,
now smoked through the territory's oil
back to your woodland.
       
We cross a corner privy to selves and bump the other by our shells in the public hallway —      
inlies a mushroom      
with the titular inferential question.