Inside of this,
trees.
And quiet. It’s the end
of everything
that’s here.
The air and what’s in it—
a forest, a great many
leaves.
I am so calm
I can’t watch. I am terrified
of air. It’s all I can do to hold my breath.
Places become very far away—
they reserve themselves
to time. They are
rescued.
I go mad from it. Everything is
a mess
and then collapses.
The recovery is made
from other air.
It takes forever.
There is a wife in me.
She’s going to be there
forever.
We go inside what’s inside of us. We aren’t
anything
that’s here.
The climate of air attaching
to us
hurricanes.
All these
places,
assimilations.
The meaning to be
gotten at.
Nearly everyone here is afraid
of clowns.
I imagine us,
lost of trees,
particular.
How we want this to go
concerns us, as there is
space inside
each leaf
for light. The spare cloud,
many importances.
Can you, from math,
take yourself enough
away
to know what’s left?
The worst
is weather. The steady
creek.
One time everything was meant.
You rub
your face with night cream
in day while outside,
the sweetgums
bloom. Learning to care
of wounds
the cranes eat wounds
and sleep.
This is my promise: leaves.
Sometime later, trees
against, us
away, in water
like stilled
leaves,
expectant, otherwise,
of the kind of
horizon
that keeps
possible
what’s before it.
That is to say
wind.
That is to say
wind
every day. Above us,
medicine.
We are located
inside it.
We train what can land
to land
quietly.
Isn’t this just like
the end
of time.
Art Information
- "Trees" © Will Jackson; Creative Commons license
- "Trees" © Peyman Faghir Mirnezami; Creative Commons license
- "Tree Veins" © Alexander Kesselaar; Creative Commons license
- "Trees in Fog" © Andy Cox; Creative Commons license
Jennifer Denrow lives in Colorado. She is the author of California (Four Way Books), A Knee for a Life (Horse Less Press) and From California, On (Brave Men Press).
