The Imprecision Trees

August 11, 2011

He can taste the faint taste of tangerine
Deep in the back of what is, after all,
Her throat. His kisses are like trees. They scream
At summer’s wet opulence. Too tall
To climb –as if being were the big thing,
As if such innocence was just as good
As reading  Plato in Vermont at 5 AM,
As if the one bird left in one wet tree was good
Enough to wake the crows to murder geese
And geese to gaggle crows—these trees don’t mourn
Or mock our loss. Neither kidney nor kiss
Is something they will miss. First born acorn
Is all they sing as little nuts roll down
Into the lake. Some will live. Some will drown.

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