May we be folded before all around us
folds into the swell. Our sweaty alms
will not resuscitate our bedside
palms. We did not accord our trees
the attention they served to us. Put
us on paper. We will be connected
to the same spine, dog-fearing names
that we are. We understand that teeth
are wreathes signaling the deaths of
the spruce that offered these laurels
to signal the flying of the light from
these blighted hands that we once
held in common. Now that the
fingers have spilt into the commons,
our nails have failed to seal our coffins
against the passage of the worms
and our squirming souls.
Roman Ryan 