Dirge for a tree

Born green in a flawed yard, in
speckled thickets
of fog-
Bonewhite in a peephole letting
in the nightlong
and the sounds of obsolete crickets,
A barren branch
sleeps with its dried veins in silting
soil and unmade
Cloaked by a lidless sky
and the sounds of worms on
the lips of a toad
– – –
A wooded deer in a cunning
eats its bark
over and over the old age, no
life for a while
Each breathing gesture drains like
water down a
fleeing in its alley holes down to
the wall
of the sea- into the cellars of
Into the small nostrils of sand and
the pots of fish.

Copyright © 03/24/17 lance sheridan®