sanctuary

wooded silence.
 
then,
 
chain saw cracks bark, cracks the spine;
 
trees measured out with yardsticks; after,
lay fallen like dead cotton on a homeless
 
man.
 
water fails to creep,
fails like a high school
dropout,
 
both, now unemployed
in a dead−end
job;
 
penetrating preachers arrive to give last rights
with pageless bibles,
 
more an exorcism…
 
boss man stands smoking cheap cigar,
tosses it, slow motion,
lands−smoke and fire
 
creep,
 
forest floor heats up
similar to a woodstove;
 
firefighters paid off
like street hookers…
 
wooded noise.
 
now.
 
heard,
 
“light touches the dead wood of
my soul and brings forth the
tender growth of hope.”
 
peace.
 
 
Copyright © 01/08/2013 Barbara Sutton & Lance Sheridan
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