Skip to main content

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.