The Tree CuttersA Poem by Leslie Philibert
not just about trees
Roadside trees falling to the bottom of the sea,
orange moonmen with profiles of edges and plastic,
buzz like angry bees, so I crouch lost and wordless
in the middle of the earth,
under the forest, under moss, behind roots,
but having small stones thrown into my eyes,
am unable to look upwards,
standing ashamed in my fern grave,
trucks rumble past, even a massacre of pigs
would leave them unconcerned, runed,
coloured with the names of distant places,
edges of strange towns alongside sand and gravel
and the radio in my car lights green,
fighting to regain sanity, helpless,
all meaning down to a pulse, reason
is sick this morning, just a lost voice.
© 2012 Leslie Philibert
Shelved in 5 LibrariesAdded on May 18, 2012
Last Updated on May 18, 2012
AboutI`m not important. I just want to write a couple of good poems. Just read what I write. That`s enough. more..
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