Heartwood

It’s dead, she says, clasping your hand in hers,
the whole damn place is dead.
Who cares if there are parakeets, or ferns, or laurel
if there’s not even a damn shower head?
Who cares about the bark and who gives a damn
about a lark when there’s not a croissant in sight?
There could be a shark in the brook, and a tree
full of rooks, but you’d still yearn after a tealight.
She’s cold to the warmth of lovers’ palms on a log –
can’t feel the fallen might of an oak that once stood,
nor will she ever be blind to the forest for the trees
even as you take pleasure in the heartwood.
.
.
.
For those in dead places

2 thoughts on “Heartwood”

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