Imitation, Trees

(An imitation poem in the style of Lucie Brock-Broido after reading The Master Letters)

The taste of a one-day autumn is that
Of road salt, crisp smoke; there

Is a you & a me & a me & the season
Surrendering to frost. Something red is falling

From your branches, gathering. I am not
Inhabited like you, but neither am I bored

By worms or beetles mulching channels
Through us–I am bereft of writhing

Things. Would that I could writhe. Your leaves–
I'm sure–pile differently from beneath. We are losing

Track of the one-day Autumns cut short,
salt scattered; I do not remember

The first bite taken at your roots–Quickly!
Cut yourself in half & count the rings.

The Art of Destroying Things on Purpose

Some sounds
are indicative
of harm.

A wasp's wings
could never hum
a lullaby,

a chainsaw
is incapable
of building.

But other sounds
like to fool you:
your heart skips

when the phone
rings, and drops
when answered;

the angry buzz
of a tattoo gun
paints beautifully.

(Starting Over, day 2. Via readwritepoem.org)

Saturation

Watching ladders
of light climb,
brighten, fade
on the wall:
an old mop
and its bucket
of water, both
too saturated
with old messes
to clean anything.

We only move
the dirt around
when we move
together, but
the streaks
are moist
and new
for now,
and it is
enough.

(Starting Over, day 1. Via readwritepoem.org)