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.
Thanks to Shannon Fox
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