By Erin Belieu

to find the trees
are taking prisoners again.

You’re certain that they’re
harmless, benign as a flock

of founding fathers, the same
dignified postures, dropping

gnomish blossoms from
their black palms—

but the missing must go
somewhere when they leave

you. There’s a flicker in
the atmosphere like a second-rate

spy with a pocket mirror,
and the trees,

the trees aren’t talking,
they’ve got nothing to say.

You should get up early.
You should force them

to admit
what could be gone like that.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: