>the initials carved into the tree
out front of grandma’s house

an incantation, proving
nothing of magic in this world

soil better for the seeds
bucolic burials left to feed

lies uproot, the defying tree still stands
the letters will not dissolve with rot

what erases or creeps upon, mires what one once knew
none shall know, but there is smooth, healthy skin there

the sun through leaves makes this clear
no pain from bark can disappear.

>still without the white wind
but aching, then a cough
no, the sky palms its cool rain
toward the eastern shore’s aching eyes
prone, though immune to the festering sun
fluid-filled lungs      &
your scream across the outerbridge
never not but a bell unrung

so inside
though abandoned missing
half, thought not betrayed or flayed flat
and catching that which fills me
one can do so much
behind the love of windows