Through slit-like blinds,
bright sycamore leaves. Inside,
blankets in their usual heap.
Slowly, we circle the actual thing.
I cannot locate it in the body–
that ravenous hope. After, the tree
so green it could burst
into blossom – but won’t.
Through slit-like blinds,
bright sycamore leaves. Inside,
blankets in their usual heap.
Slowly, we circle the actual thing.
I cannot locate it in the body–
that ravenous hope. After, the tree
so green it could burst
into blossom – but won’t.