Trees – March 2007

I want
to lean out
             my window
                         and scream
             to the trees,

feel
their bark against my hands,
branches rough,
unfinished

They are not putting on a show for anyone.

They are the only real things I’ve talked to
in a week and a half,
and they say nothing.

The TV blares
endless repetition of cautious cronies
ever ongoing without pause
to breathe.

The trees know how to breathe.

I want to fall
into the trees.

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