by Brent Pace
I don't wish for an end to The storm under the orchestrated Sighing of this spruce The needles have lost their sharpness Under me. I have forgotten bitter Sap, and I have forgotten the Wind that used to hollow me After our meetings. Your skin is dry after a second Bathing. You've been cleaned out. You lie on your side and feel Your own ribs now with half-closed Eyes and think of not eating Again for many days.
