The oak died
in the last
baseball year,
thick dollars of rot
splitting the crook
with a winter step.
I had given up
on Kelly from
Corner Drive,
old enough now
to let go of
the desire in
her Lions
nightshirt.
**** moved in
next door, saving
me from
mother's cancer.
The sun was a
gnaw, I lived by
nightfall, engaged
to the femoral
moon. ****
played drums,
his father
chain smoked, and
I hunted the changing
braid that filled
the wooden air.
It was another way
to be, exile from
the sick-house,
eating the words
of books,
replacing
the things I had
been denied.
The sick oak lay
like a vacancy
in the center of the
yard, too far gone
even for firewood,
black ailerons
down in the wetness
of the mantle.
Lord,
I could barely
even look at it.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
The oak died
in the last
baseball year,
thick dollars of rot
splitting the crook
with a winter step.
I had given up
on Kelly from
Corner Drive,
old enough now
to let go of
the desire in
her Lions
nightshirt.
**** moved in
next door, saving
me from
mother's cancer.
The sun was a
gnaw, I lived by
nightfall, engaged
to the femoral
moon. ****
played drums,
his father
chain smoked, and
I hunted the changing
braid that filled
the wooden air.
It was another way
to be, exile from
the sick-house,
eating the words
of books,
replacing
the things I had
been denied.
The sick oak lay
like a vacancy
in the center of the
yard, too far gone
even for firewood,
black ailerons
down in the wetness
of the mantle.
Lord,
I could barely
even look at it.
