Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

branches

we will stand under a barely-breathing elm,
and you will tell me, “life is a lot like this tree.”

i will ask you what you mean, and you will take a seat
fumble at a tin can with a rusted knife,
eat.

you will look at that tree, as if thinking
open your mouth, as if beginning to speak –
i will wait for silent minutes
wondering if perhaps you’ve entered another of your spells,
you will answer, pointing a finger at those branches-gone-static,
“so long as the trunk is alive,
nothing has died.”

maybe in the future, when i hear this,
i will understand what you mean

in my moment, as i sit,
this vision is opaque to me

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s