Sunday, October 10, 2010


The tree is alive. I hear it

through the murmuring of crickets,

its voice. Some magic

turning branches into limbs

etching a strange mouth

on its rough trunk.

Upon recognizing the scent

of a flower, the tree moves.

How the wind disturbs it.

Street lamps tint my skin orange

on a midnight walk, past gutters

glistening like silver fish.

I touch the wood, its uneven surface,

the grains sticking to my palm.

I feel age. How it sheds bark.

My senses were meant to find these things.

It is good how nothing is certain.

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