Monday, April 7, 2014

HOLLOW

Dark 
and bare 

and somehow
larger! than rightly

seems plausible
ancient 

oak tree—could it be you?

or rather—
your stiff and 
tightwound thousands

of boney slate gray 
colored fingers—so

tired! and spread
far and looking so desperate-
ly

starving— 
for the still-
absent honeyed 

blush of our only
reluctant 
pale yellow star—?

Could it rest 
alone

on them?
straining—so hard 
to hold

up this massive 
and pressing-

down 
hard 
upon the landscape—

iron-
colored April sky?

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