{for the trees}


Forgive us our sins,
this ripping of your skins,
your purloined pulp
our great white hope.

You promise much
in your alabaster space,
force us to face
our brightest fears;

woo us with the wild
delights of holding
some delicious new
between our pen-teeth.

your rings. Those sacred things
that boast your age.
Now peeled, a

We mourn your quiet loss,
but your devotion
to the c(l)ause
is appreciated.



In April we poem. Sorry, trees. 






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