BOTANICA
5.17.20
sometimes to pine is not to falter
it s to drop the last straw for new fires
crisp memories making smoke signals to mirrors
in anothers words
there s shame in there
as if, failure to be someones doormat speaks less of you
they never saw the piss stained sheets
foreign lands that could be perfect
could
were it not for slurred insults
no
pine is quiet, but no longer subtle
forgiving green needles stitching hearts together with its sap
until winter comes
cold and undulating needles are straws
for warmth.
this isn t a condemnation
nothing is burned here
this is phoenix, after all
let this be a passage, keeping you warm this winter
until next spring
in the night – were all sounds strange
until dawn, when dew replaces musk.