reflection

This is Poetry.

His Tree Her

He went to the window and saw them: men, three of them, in orange vests and protective hats and shoes. He saw the slices of her there. One of the men was about to make another cut, so the better part of her would fit in the bed. The other two were gathering her remnants. They grasped her thin limbs and dragged them across the pavement and tossed them, one on top of another. Her lifeless limbs seemed to shake with fright when they fell. He walked closer to the window, looked down, and saw the last of her. Thirty-three rings, one for each year. He remembered what the landlord said. He woke from the chainsaw sound.

Stepping on wet blocks

Dog Lifts
into a Hatch back

The Scholar Smiles
a baseballcap brim

Pass on Len-roc
A longhaired song

As Long as the rain
sad to be gone