Monday, March 25, 2019


The trees—do not come back here
without intensest kind of hunger,
without their fear of an everlasting
night, without fully expecting

to lose all of their proud currency
and to stand there, eventually, as
blind and petrified monuments
to poverty. And so—neither do we

leave, without completely losing
control of every appetite,
without forgetting the smooth feel
of the seeds of our anger, without

laying down those heavy
strapped purses and bulging back
pocket wallets which we use
to conceal and carry around the calcified

marginalia of sorrow—and somehow,
without fully expecting
never to ourselves become the neat virgin
plats which might feed them next year.

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