The woods are thick today,
aren’t they? A profusion
of willow and pine.
I have sinned and I’m afraid
I’ve lost my way. The river flowing
in its bed is a signal, I know
it is. And the flare of sunlight
on the fallen leaves. So generations
have come to this: mother touched
my father’s face, his cheek
turned to blood and it all began.
Continuities, then, don’t console.
We all have bodies, it’s a shame
they can’t be used. Yet the pistil
and the stamen, the parallel trees,
shade our desire this autumn afternoon,
a code beyond deciphering. If leaves
are falling, let them fall.
So come to me now, without regret.
The woods take care of their own, and in
the dark, beyond this hush, the body speaks.
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