We all dream Heaven holds:

    frankincense and myrrh, those starry tree-saps
    they, as incense, burned their paper bark
    and spined parent shapes drained often
    by those of us who learned of and from the birds,
    how to make a tool of a curlew’s beak
    to tap the resin and drink from long incisions
    hard cut inside each tree,

the first of which bodies forth:

a milk-white bleeding that hardens fast
into streaks we label tears our harvest living
in nearly every action, and mirroring our gnashing
grasping, when infant-young, for mother-teat,
even when claiming ours is the right to drink
from that praying tree, thrice-yearly tapped,
which blooms so modestly above tongueish leaves,
its small yellow-white flowers reaching for the sun,
before they turn to a base of red, as petals quailing
become the trailing legs of racing jellyfish,
prey paralysed, as they move in fast to kill;

and of the second

its drinking is birthed by another music
that mirrors most of all the constancy of violence,
its sound best shaped by a quartet of violins
and violas alternating, each, in turn, plucked
then bowed so that sound, upon the strings,
glides from one pitch to another eager always
to reach a climax in sharp semitones that slash the air,
for we must wound the Madagascan tree
repeatingly, to force the sap to seep through bark
into and through the wood, until the resin,
red and orange, or near ochre to my eye,
until the commiphora bleeds in jerking oozing bursts
from the three-pair or more of wounds we make,
until enough of it then hardens,
until we can glut our wanting deep
upon its fast coagulating spoor.