but I won’t say a thing about the way the trees
shimmer in the light, nor about the trees themselves.
not a word about the beech tree in the doctor’s yard
while her daughter is dying upstairs, not a word
about the foxglove tree in our own backyard, where
you and I sit out late every night and act like its only
in the poems I write that the doctor’s daughter
is real. of the shimmer of the trees in the light I
will give nothing away but the very tips
the tips of the trees that sway in the wind
and the needles that are always green. I will
act like only that flickering, fevered light
stitched into the tips of the fir trees is real.
but not their trunks crowded beneath, never
those slender shadows, the forest, the trees themselves.
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