MUTINY OF TREES
And I shall tell you this: these trees will steal our dreams.
The local hearts and towns are moist and marshy at bottom.
The trees do not sleep. We walk into the garden, and
They clutch our shoulders with their leafless limbs.
Sharp dark talons press into the thin slits of wounds.
These trees grow through us and do not heal with age.
Because we took their parents to serve our needs,
To make beds and boxes, spoons, windows, and doors.
In a wooden bed with an engraved headboard,
Dark with age and infested with woodworms
In a bowl of my breast I stir up the cough with my ribs
And I say:
Across the garden, through the tall grass
To the river.
But it’s too late:
A boat is on guard at the shore,
Its wooden spine damaged by the river.
I would like to meet face to face the tree
that will float out of the fog,
and step on my breast.