do the sapless twigs of winter
taste any different on the tree
you’ve just girdled,
this waste of a pine?
Its whited branches light
the grove like candles,
But you with your poor eyesight
must favor the dark: hollows & cavities,
the undersides of things,
This pine was unwise to arm itself
with such soft & succulent spines.
It did nothing but hiss
like a gnawed-on road-salted tire.
do you ever pass
those bleached roads in the air
& long for salt?