Considerate delinquencies at the
behest of scarlet, the behalf of indigo,
well-behaved colors marching to the ballot box.
I have no compunction about the
rivered grains of cedar,
knottish percolations of redwood.
Trees do not play politics.
They stand for standing, until we
carve them up and lay them out.
This piece of paper.
Stand on a mountain and you would
think that we’d never run out of them,
but we are the human pestilence,
charming, intelligent beings who
go around ruining things.
I stand on the ribs of giants,
crucified horizontal so we may
sail the forest,
gazing on their cousins.
I dip a brush into the tray and
sweep it across.
The corpses drink.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV