Wednesday, November 18, 2015


Pain clustered and bloomed
like spring buds on an oak tree,
in the old way, the ancient trial
of every human who bleeds
but does not die, does not
need a funeral, but forces an
imitation of death, the throes
of winter that ravish no
real tree, but freezes root
systems in the most intimate
way, the only way I can
find my way home to sleep.