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Cutting the Trees
This dead pine refuses to fall.
Even when we cut its feet
it stands, or hangs, Absalom
by the hair, from other trees.
And we, we push and rope
making thunder and bolts
of breaking branches, prising
from reluctant arms.
Afterward I straddle the silence
hold in my hand heart
reeking of resin, drawn in the waving
circles of a very old story.
We knew all along you were dead.
Or not dead. Which did we know?
That transformations go hard, even for trees,
wrenched out of your body into the sun.
20th Century
Table of Contents
Popocatepetl
Untitled
Before
Autumn
Jaded
Joanie
Boats
Ode to V. Cook
Cricket
Cutting the Trees
This Seagull
October
More Poetry
The Agave Files
2021
2020
2010 - 2019
2001 - 2009
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