12.29.2005

Take your skin to the trees. Where leaves remain wet and sour
there is no hope. Where a tree has fallen silent, make no sound.

Provide for the woods. The day has no hours
with sallow gray light all the same, and so time ends. The day ends. The world shifts into night

pathetically, beaten and insincere. The trees will never see themselves
the way you have. For this, they will never be mistaken.

3 comments:

  1. ive read a lot of your poems.

    this is the first one to make me cry.

    seriously.

    ReplyDelete
  2. "The trees will never see themselves the way you have."

    I think I'll be carrying that line around with me, embedded inside me like a splinter or a fetus for days to come.

    ReplyDelete
  3. I really like this poem, Charles!

    ReplyDelete