I hollowed out the walnut trees. I stripped away their leaves. I left the shells beneath them with the smell of mud and atrophy.
And somewhere there’s a fire cutting loose these lisles of smoke that rest in evanescent trails and sink, the clement stock of wood that wasn’t mine and wasn’t ready threading piquant through the boughs like burdens fading.
So vain they stand, these leafless chapters stretched and brittle. So burn them, runs the epitaph, and empty run their roots. And nothing but the mud and shells to hold me.
I hollowed out the walnut trees for days that I might harvest, days that might have watered them, but now it’s sap that runs so thick. And though I try to wash my hands of days I’ve cut away, the walnut trees I’ve bled, they just keep bleeding.