You and the Woods and the Devil on my Shoulder

A tiny devil lands

on my shoulder;

having no counter-

part, she stands

and, as I walk

at rabbit's pace

to the old place

where we used to talk,

she drags from

her cigarette,

flicking it,

hum-drum.

"He ain't comin',"

she says,

and ashes

on my neck.

"Don't need him,"

I lie--should lie

down to die,

but light up instead.

Unconvinced,

she scoffs at me.

"Then what do you need?"

And a dreadful wind

slithers through

the fissure,

icy, bitter.

"I don't need you."

The woods, too

are dead, like us--

a Winter-sheared husk

through and through.

You'll come, I hope,

leaning over

the grove, or

maybe I don't.

You'll come, I hope,

leaning over

the grove, or

maybe you won't.

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