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