Campfire

A rotten tree dried out on the shells

Intact from roots to curling boughs

An ancient sort of furniture

Thrown up from a forest submerged.

The oaken whales and cedar fish

That drifted through the dancing leaves

Now weaving through the absence

Of their timber-limpet home.

A toppled tower of knots and whorls

Prostrate for brand new purposes

As barbecue hipsters cluster up the trunk

Playing crystal-tuned guitars

And singing other people's songs.