1.

It is important that you pour
your sap onto my kale.
Although I wish you had done it
long ago, I will forgive your delay
the moment you begin pouring.
The need for you to pour
your sap onto my kale
has become increasingly urgent—
although not so urgent
that you should drop everything
else that matters to you
in order to do it.
I must remind myself
often that those other
elements comprising
your experience are more
than just obstacles in the way
of you pouring your sap onto my kale,
but are in fact facets of the whole
reason it is so
important that you pour
your sap onto my kale
in the first place.  
Although of course
I prefer to gaze
into your sap’s lush, enigmatic interior,
occasionally I fail to see
beyond its reflective surface
and must instead contend
with the cloudy outline
of my own face,
which makes me uncomfortable.
This should no
longer be an issue
once you’ve poured your sap onto my kale.

2.

I apologize for my tone
when previously discussing your sap.
There was a lot I did not know
about sap back then.
I was recently gently
corrected by the internet.
I was then more
forcefully corrected
by a chorus of frogs,
and then yet again
by a message written
in tiny, delicate, anonymous,
conspiratorial longhand
on a dried out
sycamore leaf
that I just happened to look down at
one evening while walking,
at which point I remembered
I had known this
all along but forgotten: I had thought
your sap was something
that could be poured, but it can’t.
It is something that is yours
and that I am meant
to want but not have.
You, if I am lucky,
are meant to want
to give it to me—although
you cannot—and it’s this wanting
that is the pouring
I was once naïve
enough to believe
was literal.
Nevertheless, I remain hopeful
that you will soon pour
your sap onto my kale.