Please post unit poems here by Sunday, April 19th @ Noon.
11 thoughts on “POEMS”
All my writing looks the same sounds the same hasn’t changed.
How can I write anything I don’t really
can’t really
believe in.
How can I put my name on it?
Write this:
a question.
Write this:
a promise to yourself.
Write this:
a regret you have.
Write this:
the name of someone you love or miss.
What words do you like? What words sound nice?
What words are delicate, dancing?
What words are inextricably intertwined?
Do you believe language is by God?
Do you believe in words that encapsulate essence?
Write this:
Daybreak.
seeping through my window – bleeding through the pane
hushed clouds, blue light
desert air – brisk, demanding,
I can taste the breath of longing.
All my writing looks the same sounds the same hasn’t changed.
Write this:
full, sure, candidly, the sun is glowing
solace
amber honey
bronze thickness pouring through shades
ricocheting off mirrors.
The seeds are sprouting,
dainty shoots unfurling
blossoming
for me.
What happens to the shadows, after they’re used?
What happens to me? Now that I’m broken, bruised?
What happens
after the fall,
after lightning strikes a tower?
All my writing looks the same sounds the same hasn’t changed.
I keep falling in circles.
Write this:
Start again. Second chances don’t wait forever.
Write this:
the willow and vines, the tender way they intertwine.
I miss the landscape
the tender, the gentle, the spring green.
I wish this willow tree would just sweep downwards,
embrace me.
I’m tired.
Write this:
Nostalgia Red.
Do you know what I mean?
a stop light on a city night
a new England hillside, flaming
carmine willows lining a riverbed
ruby sunrise caressing a mountain range
a plastic cup
Do you know what I mean?
party lights flickering and I
am stumbling
Nostalgia Red.
Do you think you could learn to love me?
Write this:
A point in time
Here and now.
No circle, no line.
the tangible
a material I can grasp.
The fabric of letters,
woven
knit
entwined.
How do I sculpt walls out of light and shade?
How do I trace the silhouettes of gateways, thresholds,
the movement in between?
Write this:
carve a door from roots, snaking
from sound, from beat,
from shadows permeating the velvety dirt beneath my feet.
etch
an aperture through which I can truly see.
Write this:
the physical manifestation of the human condition.
Write this:
benediction and blessing.
benediction and blessing.
benediction and blessing.
Write this:
I am
I am
I am
trying to.
But
‘a word is elegy to what it signifies.’
And so I let you go.
Into the wardrobe in a fury,
a whirlwind of clothes
whipped into a box held together
by tears that never fell.
You screamed so close I could taste
that it was over.
All that you failed to keep within
has suddenly left me completely
without.
Dinner for one at a table for two.
You said it was work
but work doesn’t text at midnight.
The slightest smile at a familiar ringtone
reminded me that I wasn’t your’s
anymore.
You smelled different,
an extra dash of pomade and cheap liquor
in your Saturday night potpourri.
For a time our bed felt empty,
but it soon became much too full,
when an intruder made residence
in my home; in our home.
Real questions deserve honest answers,
but an accusation uninformed
could grow a chasm from solid ground.
I steeled shut to protect
a tower already scheduled for demolition.
Leftover Thai and I Love Lucy reruns
stopped being enough to satiate your hunger.
I spilled the wine and you shouted,
loud enough to wake the dog,
loud enough to signal change.
You insisted sleeping
back-to-back for better rest
but every time I rolled closer
you shifted away.
Magnets attract as easily as they repel.
My New Year’s resolution
was to be more honest,
you scoffed.
You gave up on me, so I let go of you.
Until Then
the only thing that matters is the kitchen sink
the grubby metal spout drips rhythmically
reminding me that i’m alive, even if just for a second
voices spin like strands of hair, blonde
blonde that glints in the sun as you move
drawn to your familiar temper
first kiss on a pull-out couch
heart racing toes curling fingers buzzing
your cold hand on the bare skin of my waist
my cheek on your warm chest
you fall asleep fast
softly twitching before i even close my eyes
i haven’t wanted to stop looking at you yet
i can’t remember what you smell like
or exactly how lips feel against mine
for now, it’s just the kitchen sink
and the image of your figure in bed next me,
fading with each passing night
on the dramatic irony of being stuck in a poetic loop
I.
how many times does it take to write
the same poem to you two hundred times;
write it barebones and stretch it long
until it’s different and ever the same;
and though the poet is not the pain
throughout the verses they read the same;
endless, caught in days of wanton
desire for his story to unfold different.
it is the poem that writes me now
consumed in repeating rhythms, rhymes;
the titles lowercase and dated—day 227—
just to showcase the waiting that lingers;
the image of the seashore suspended mid-
sentence hints at this effort to stay afloat;
and when i grab a footing to finally end it
i’m enjambed—written again at the top of the page;
II.
how many times does it take to have
the same conversation with you seven times;
have every time be the one over your bed
half-asleep, inquisitor, purple and deluded;
and whisper to yourself “this time i’ll let it go”
only to find a poem next week saying that you stayed;
foolish, captured in some childish business
of longing for his fiction to ring true.
it is the poems that cheat me now
accounting my metaphors, allegories;
if you pit them against time, they blur
there is no start or finish under this stroke;
all images of animalistic, cannibalistic,
artistic, do you love me is that realistic
live, imprinted on page mixed with ink
i’m enjambed—only alluded to going somewhere;
III.
how many verses, stanzas, dances and shit
has it really been ten months since i fell for this;
the poems written long ago were less concrete
but somehow made more sense to the reader;
then the poet was violetear green and indigo blue
and flight was not avoiding never being enough;
oblivious, but whose verses lacked that passion
destined only for honeycomb heartbreak.
it is the poems that free me now
from the dramatic irony of our poetic loop;
no more dark bus rides after six to find
nor sexually transmitted obsessions to make mine;
and every day now is just a day—no numbers
as there’s nothing to count towards anymore;
solace, mixed in wordplay and meta-poetry
i’m enjambed—ready to start the next collection.
My brother got my mother’s dark brown eyes,
So deep a shade that you could never quite find its depths.
I inherited a mix of theirs and my father’s grey-green –
A pale sage or sea glass; a docile color,
But which between his eyelids meant the promise of a brewing storm.
In my own eyes, the colors never mix;
Like my dinner plates at five years old,
The rice and peas close but never touching.
The brown, solid and center,
Wrapping ‘round my pupils like a shield
As the outer olive encroaches ever closer.
You can’t see the green unless you look closely
But I know it’s there.
The brown knows it’s there.
The house was his at first,
I didn’t know so much broken could fit inside four walls and a roof
Stuffed to bursting down the chimney
Finally shattering the tiny skylight
That even the persistent pecking of birds couldn’t crack
No matter how much I used to worry it would.
What did it instead were the words,
The threat, the SOS, and the whispered prayer weaving together in three-part harmony
And the hands,
Weathered palms transferring their ruddy hue to more supple skin
Leaving marks, calling cards of inherited trauma
Passed from father to son like an old keepsake.
A hand around the wrist
Around the waist
In the air
A scorpion, poised to strike.
Look me in the eye
No.
Look me in the eye.
The green explodes.
The brown and the green-brown are simply collateral damage.
Within the four larger walls were four smaller walls
That were mine and only mine.
Before the hands and eyes
Before the words beat the birds in the race to shatter the skylight
My mother taped up paint chips on the kitchen cabinet
Three feet high, so I could see
And I chose the green.
In those days, green was just a color.
Today, my walls are white.
There are five of them here, dotted with sunbaked, sticky scotch tape residue
And acrylics on canvas
And anything but green.
And there are four of them there,
Every inch covered in letters and drawings
And photobooth strips and ticket stubs
And a slightly torn, yellowed periodic table
And anything, anything but green.
The old green walls now belong to my brother.
Over there, it’s all green;
The pines outside my window and the vast expanse of rolling hills
The pastures when the last snow is but a distant memory.
Over here, the green spills out into the street,
Decking the barren California earth and the cracks between the scorching pavement
Hints of emerald breaking up the marred grey of concrete.
a fresh puddle of blood
redder than roses, than cherries, than the rubies on her necklace
the reddest of reds I’d seen
she needed a doctor, and so I screamed
for a phone, an ambulance
for any semblance of help
scattered white sheets, a microphone, the banging of a gavel
only a sick man would kill his own wife
your fingerprints smeared across her pale, lifeless face
to help her I cried
my voice muffled by fear, by panic, by guilt
the guilt of absence; the guilt that I sat behind a desk as
the love of my life was murdered
crowds of lawyers, courtroom coffee, the banging of a gavel
sufficient evidence, clear grounds for conviction
all I can think of is how she wanted to die somewhere pretty
in a lakehouse in michigan
amongst snowy trees in vermont
on a warm beach in bali, she would say
a clearly exhausted juror, high chambers, the banging of a gavel
guilty
murder, manslaughter, homicide, a cumulation of charges
a life for a life they said in my country
a simple equation
the result sum, my existence
there she was
for the last time
on the screen of an inmates smuggled phone
her innocent, tender face lay before my eyes
my baby girl
where you going papa, she said
an overwhelming sadness, an inexplicable explanation, a brief moment of silence
somewhere pretty, mi amor; or so I hoped
Even gods mistaken the magnolias for awakening.
They themselves coax budding out of chilled branches.
Pre-historic pollination by beetle, by immortal hand.
Even the gods forget the mortality of their creation.
Look at the bloom, the open mouth of maturing.
Skeletal trees enlivening on a Sunday–this had to be the gods.
Are we mistaken? The magnolias are awakening.
It must be the gods, the ones that crack open windows with light–leave bodies burning
under the heat of the beating of the day. Oh God, run your fingertips along my forearms.
Lift up the living and dying of skin cells stuck in the cyclical nature of my making.
I am as alive as the first day of August–as freckled and familiar as heat, teary-eyed recollection
and that leather chair and her chipped tooth. Even the gods mistake the magnolias as a possession. Confession–I did too, until they loved me and turned into something else meant to die.
Even magnolias mistaken the gods for awakening.
At the dinner table I rip fat chunks of bread and pass them to my family.
This is part of my prayer. I want to be good.
Because love. Because life-raft. Because drowning babies kissed the belly of Noah’s ark as it passed by.
We take coupons and calculators to the grocery store checkout and I not once
forget that no one is watching over us.
This is me in a church. This is me eating my tongue. This is me
talking to God as a spokesperson for the department of child care subsidies.
The red stamp on my forehead marks me a bride married to providing so
bless the burnt layer of rice that sticks to the bottom of the pot and
bless the hands that scrape it off and
bless the water that makes it a meal.
In my dreams I am small enough to wash over a sink.
My eyes are marbles scattered on the sidewalk. Catseye. Swirly. Bumblebee.
I poke the world with my pinky and catch the drops of honey on my tongue,
as many as I can cram before I open my eyes to an earth that expects to be fed.
Here is a confession. I learned martyrdom from my mother
who learned it from her mother
who learned it from hers.
So are we there yet? My legs are tired.
I have been everything
required of me.
I have been piece by piece.
Let me be a guest in someone else’s kitchen.
One of our last conversations
before sickness drove a wedge between your side
of the room and mine was about the way my mom
and your mom always looked so beautiful
at dusk in August, when she was at the counter
with garlic on her fingers
and the shadow version of the vase
on the table was reaching to get away
from itself. My mom,
I said, always forgot
to turn the overhead lights on, because
the fading glow
didn’t get to her the way it worried me
to notice how even the flat and smooth places
were now dragged into dimness, the kitchen walls,
the ceiling too heavy to be real. My mom,
you said, had the same habit
of letting it go just a bit too dark,
but I have never felt so warm as in that grayness,
and then you must have closed your eyes
to see that color bloom behind your eyelids
and when I could not find it for myself I turned over
and settled for sleep.
by the lake of cavalier cattails
always growing, poking their heads through the amniotic water
defiers of mortality, while bodies rot, epitaphs fade
on its banks, a tree stretches its long fingertips
its trunk the shared leg of ten contortionists backbending
boneless and fluid with the wind
hoping to graze a strand of hair, tickle an arm, push lovers together
its roots jut out to trip
sweethearts falling into each other’s embrace
when the tree blooms in spring, it provides shade and a private place
for stolen kisses and capricious confessions
in fall, its tears sprinkle the ground with gold
as its last lovers for the year mark its bark
in winter, i am the only visitor
i see straight through its bare loveless branches
to the fogged blue sky
my ghostlike exhales trapped with the stars
its stripped form offers me nothing
except an unobstructed view to the opposite shore of the lake
where moonlight drips on graves
All my writing looks the same sounds the same hasn’t changed.
How can I write anything I don’t really
can’t really
believe in.
How can I put my name on it?
Write this:
a question.
Write this:
a promise to yourself.
Write this:
a regret you have.
Write this:
the name of someone you love or miss.
What words do you like? What words sound nice?
What words are delicate, dancing?
What words are inextricably intertwined?
Do you believe language is by God?
Do you believe in words that encapsulate essence?
Write this:
Daybreak.
seeping through my window – bleeding through the pane
hushed clouds, blue light
desert air – brisk, demanding,
I can taste the breath of longing.
All my writing looks the same sounds the same hasn’t changed.
Write this:
full, sure, candidly, the sun is glowing
solace
amber honey
bronze thickness pouring through shades
ricocheting off mirrors.
The seeds are sprouting,
dainty shoots unfurling
blossoming
for me.
What happens to the shadows, after they’re used?
What happens to me? Now that I’m broken, bruised?
What happens
after the fall,
after lightning strikes a tower?
All my writing looks the same sounds the same hasn’t changed.
I keep falling in circles.
Write this:
Start again. Second chances don’t wait forever.
Write this:
the willow and vines, the tender way they intertwine.
I miss the landscape
the tender, the gentle, the spring green.
I wish this willow tree would just sweep downwards,
embrace me.
I’m tired.
Write this:
Nostalgia Red.
Do you know what I mean?
a stop light on a city night
a new England hillside, flaming
carmine willows lining a riverbed
ruby sunrise caressing a mountain range
a plastic cup
Do you know what I mean?
party lights flickering and I
am stumbling
Nostalgia Red.
Do you think you could learn to love me?
Write this:
A point in time
Here and now.
No circle, no line.
the tangible
a material I can grasp.
The fabric of letters,
woven
knit
entwined.
How do I sculpt walls out of light and shade?
How do I trace the silhouettes of gateways, thresholds,
the movement in between?
Write this:
carve a door from roots, snaking
from sound, from beat,
from shadows permeating the velvety dirt beneath my feet.
etch
an aperture through which I can truly see.
Write this:
the physical manifestation of the human condition.
Write this:
benediction and blessing.
benediction and blessing.
benediction and blessing.
Write this:
I am
I am
I am
trying to.
But
‘a word is elegy to what it signifies.’
Together Apart
Owen Mason-Hill
And so I let you go.
Into the wardrobe in a fury,
a whirlwind of clothes
whipped into a box held together
by tears that never fell.
You screamed so close I could taste
that it was over.
All that you failed to keep within
has suddenly left me completely
without.
Dinner for one at a table for two.
You said it was work
but work doesn’t text at midnight.
The slightest smile at a familiar ringtone
reminded me that I wasn’t your’s
anymore.
You smelled different,
an extra dash of pomade and cheap liquor
in your Saturday night potpourri.
For a time our bed felt empty,
but it soon became much too full,
when an intruder made residence
in my home; in our home.
Real questions deserve honest answers,
but an accusation uninformed
could grow a chasm from solid ground.
I steeled shut to protect
a tower already scheduled for demolition.
Leftover Thai and I Love Lucy reruns
stopped being enough to satiate your hunger.
I spilled the wine and you shouted,
loud enough to wake the dog,
loud enough to signal change.
You insisted sleeping
back-to-back for better rest
but every time I rolled closer
you shifted away.
Magnets attract as easily as they repel.
My New Year’s resolution
was to be more honest,
you scoffed.
You gave up on me, so I let go of you.
Until Then
the only thing that matters is the kitchen sink
the grubby metal spout drips rhythmically
reminding me that i’m alive, even if just for a second
voices spin like strands of hair, blonde
blonde that glints in the sun as you move
drawn to your familiar temper
first kiss on a pull-out couch
heart racing toes curling fingers buzzing
your cold hand on the bare skin of my waist
my cheek on your warm chest
you fall asleep fast
softly twitching before i even close my eyes
i haven’t wanted to stop looking at you yet
i can’t remember what you smell like
or exactly how lips feel against mine
for now, it’s just the kitchen sink
and the image of your figure in bed next me,
fading with each passing night
on the dramatic irony of being stuck in a poetic loop
I.
how many times does it take to write
the same poem to you two hundred times;
write it barebones and stretch it long
until it’s different and ever the same;
and though the poet is not the pain
throughout the verses they read the same;
endless, caught in days of wanton
desire for his story to unfold different.
it is the poem that writes me now
consumed in repeating rhythms, rhymes;
the titles lowercase and dated—day 227—
just to showcase the waiting that lingers;
the image of the seashore suspended mid-
sentence hints at this effort to stay afloat;
and when i grab a footing to finally end it
i’m enjambed—written again at the top of the page;
II.
how many times does it take to have
the same conversation with you seven times;
have every time be the one over your bed
half-asleep, inquisitor, purple and deluded;
and whisper to yourself “this time i’ll let it go”
only to find a poem next week saying that you stayed;
foolish, captured in some childish business
of longing for his fiction to ring true.
it is the poems that cheat me now
accounting my metaphors, allegories;
if you pit them against time, they blur
there is no start or finish under this stroke;
all images of animalistic, cannibalistic,
artistic, do you love me is that realistic
live, imprinted on page mixed with ink
i’m enjambed—only alluded to going somewhere;
III.
how many verses, stanzas, dances and shit
has it really been ten months since i fell for this;
the poems written long ago were less concrete
but somehow made more sense to the reader;
then the poet was violetear green and indigo blue
and flight was not avoiding never being enough;
oblivious, but whose verses lacked that passion
destined only for honeycomb heartbreak.
it is the poems that free me now
from the dramatic irony of our poetic loop;
no more dark bus rides after six to find
nor sexually transmitted obsessions to make mine;
and every day now is just a day—no numbers
as there’s nothing to count towards anymore;
solace, mixed in wordplay and meta-poetry
i’m enjambed—ready to start the next collection.
-Green-
My brother got my mother’s dark brown eyes,
So deep a shade that you could never quite find its depths.
I inherited a mix of theirs and my father’s grey-green –
A pale sage or sea glass; a docile color,
But which between his eyelids meant the promise of a brewing storm.
In my own eyes, the colors never mix;
Like my dinner plates at five years old,
The rice and peas close but never touching.
The brown, solid and center,
Wrapping ‘round my pupils like a shield
As the outer olive encroaches ever closer.
You can’t see the green unless you look closely
But I know it’s there.
The brown knows it’s there.
The house was his at first,
I didn’t know so much broken could fit inside four walls and a roof
Stuffed to bursting down the chimney
Finally shattering the tiny skylight
That even the persistent pecking of birds couldn’t crack
No matter how much I used to worry it would.
What did it instead were the words,
The threat, the SOS, and the whispered prayer weaving together in three-part harmony
And the hands,
Weathered palms transferring their ruddy hue to more supple skin
Leaving marks, calling cards of inherited trauma
Passed from father to son like an old keepsake.
A hand around the wrist
Around the waist
In the air
A scorpion, poised to strike.
Look me in the eye
No.
Look me in the eye.
The green explodes.
The brown and the green-brown are simply collateral damage.
Within the four larger walls were four smaller walls
That were mine and only mine.
Before the hands and eyes
Before the words beat the birds in the race to shatter the skylight
My mother taped up paint chips on the kitchen cabinet
Three feet high, so I could see
And I chose the green.
In those days, green was just a color.
Today, my walls are white.
There are five of them here, dotted with sunbaked, sticky scotch tape residue
And acrylics on canvas
And anything but green.
And there are four of them there,
Every inch covered in letters and drawings
And photobooth strips and ticket stubs
And a slightly torn, yellowed periodic table
And anything, anything but green.
The old green walls now belong to my brother.
Over there, it’s all green;
The pines outside my window and the vast expanse of rolling hills
The pastures when the last snow is but a distant memory.
Over here, the green spills out into the street,
Decking the barren California earth and the cracks between the scorching pavement
Hints of emerald breaking up the marred grey of concrete.
My birthstone is an emerald.
ONE SIDED LOVE
The blackberry bush
Hides its sweet fruit
With arms of thorns
To keep the people
From their unrequited taking.
Just like me.
Somewhere Pretty
a fresh puddle of blood
redder than roses, than cherries, than the rubies on her necklace
the reddest of reds I’d seen
she needed a doctor, and so I screamed
for a phone, an ambulance
for any semblance of help
scattered white sheets, a microphone, the banging of a gavel
only a sick man would kill his own wife
your fingerprints smeared across her pale, lifeless face
to help her I cried
my voice muffled by fear, by panic, by guilt
the guilt of absence; the guilt that I sat behind a desk as
the love of my life was murdered
crowds of lawyers, courtroom coffee, the banging of a gavel
sufficient evidence, clear grounds for conviction
all I can think of is how she wanted to die somewhere pretty
in a lakehouse in michigan
amongst snowy trees in vermont
on a warm beach in bali, she would say
a clearly exhausted juror, high chambers, the banging of a gavel
guilty
murder, manslaughter, homicide, a cumulation of charges
a life for a life they said in my country
a simple equation
the result sum, my existence
there she was
for the last time
on the screen of an inmates smuggled phone
her innocent, tender face lay before my eyes
my baby girl
where you going papa, she said
an overwhelming sadness, an inexplicable explanation, a brief moment of silence
somewhere pretty, mi amor; or so I hoped
Magnolias
Even gods mistaken the magnolias for awakening.
They themselves coax budding out of chilled branches.
Pre-historic pollination by beetle, by immortal hand.
Even the gods forget the mortality of their creation.
Look at the bloom, the open mouth of maturing.
Skeletal trees enlivening on a Sunday–this had to be the gods.
Are we mistaken? The magnolias are awakening.
It must be the gods, the ones that crack open windows with light–leave bodies burning
under the heat of the beating of the day. Oh God, run your fingertips along my forearms.
Lift up the living and dying of skin cells stuck in the cyclical nature of my making.
I am as alive as the first day of August–as freckled and familiar as heat, teary-eyed recollection
and that leather chair and her chipped tooth. Even the gods mistake the magnolias as a possession. Confession–I did too, until they loved me and turned into something else meant to die.
Even magnolias mistaken the gods for awakening.
The eldest daughter says a prayer
At the dinner table I rip fat chunks of bread and pass them to my family.
This is part of my prayer. I want to be good.
Because love. Because life-raft. Because drowning babies kissed the belly of Noah’s ark as it passed by.
We take coupons and calculators to the grocery store checkout and I not once
forget that no one is watching over us.
This is me in a church. This is me eating my tongue. This is me
talking to God as a spokesperson for the department of child care subsidies.
The red stamp on my forehead marks me a bride married to providing so
bless the burnt layer of rice that sticks to the bottom of the pot and
bless the hands that scrape it off and
bless the water that makes it a meal.
In my dreams I am small enough to wash over a sink.
My eyes are marbles scattered on the sidewalk. Catseye. Swirly. Bumblebee.
I poke the world with my pinky and catch the drops of honey on my tongue,
as many as I can cram before I open my eyes to an earth that expects to be fed.
Here is a confession. I learned martyrdom from my mother
who learned it from her mother
who learned it from hers.
So are we there yet? My legs are tired.
I have been everything
required of me.
I have been piece by piece.
Let me be a guest in someone else’s kitchen.
Two dusks
One of our last conversations
before sickness drove a wedge between your side
of the room and mine was about the way my mom
and your mom always looked so beautiful
at dusk in August, when she was at the counter
with garlic on her fingers
and the shadow version of the vase
on the table was reaching to get away
from itself. My mom,
I said, always forgot
to turn the overhead lights on, because
the fading glow
didn’t get to her the way it worried me
to notice how even the flat and smooth places
were now dragged into dimness, the kitchen walls,
the ceiling too heavy to be real. My mom,
you said, had the same habit
of letting it go just a bit too dark,
but I have never felt so warm as in that grayness,
and then you must have closed your eyes
to see that color bloom behind your eyelids
and when I could not find it for myself I turned over
and settled for sleep.
the lovers’ tree
you might know this tree
the one in the cemetery
by the lake of cavalier cattails
always growing, poking their heads through the amniotic water
defiers of mortality, while bodies rot, epitaphs fade
on its banks, a tree stretches its long fingertips
its trunk the shared leg of ten contortionists backbending
boneless and fluid with the wind
hoping to graze a strand of hair, tickle an arm, push lovers together
its roots jut out to trip
sweethearts falling into each other’s embrace
when the tree blooms in spring, it provides shade and a private place
for stolen kisses and capricious confessions
in fall, its tears sprinkle the ground with gold
as its last lovers for the year mark its bark
in winter, i am the only visitor
i see straight through its bare loveless branches
to the fogged blue sky
my ghostlike exhales trapped with the stars
its stripped form offers me nothing
except an unobstructed view to the opposite shore of the lake
where moonlight drips on graves
i will return in spring