The trees have all gone wrong.
Maybe fever spread through the roots,
against this chilly morning I hold in my fist.
I stand in the same spot every spring,
calm, but outside any order of purpose,
like wood before it’s burned.
I recite a Psalm, or two, pull the words apart
as if they’re made of lace. I should write
them on the branches, tuck each one
into a sad sack given back to the earth.
I can never fully look up.
Not toward the sun, or the brightness
of a higher being.
Soon, my body will rest in this same hollow,
between trunks, stretched out like a sentence
that suddenly splits into rib of bones,
shedding of skin.
Quit. Red-corseted, beneath dust light.