John Grey


I know you, she whispers.
You want my blood.
I spy your malignant knives.


You long to suck my sweetness dry.
So now you gouge a hole,
connect me to your hunger with tubes.


And you do not love me
even as my leaves paint themselves
red and yellow and pastel death.


I can't help but bleed for you, drip, drip, drip,
down hill all your way,
in limp sunset, chilly dawn,


the frugal warm of midday
and ten thousand winds
intolerant of all that's standing.


You leave me alone to blackness,
to mocking moon, self-absorbed stars,
and wretched coyote-howl.


And all the time my wounds are open,
my sap's a picnic
for your dreams.


Two hundred Februarys
lie buried in my bark.
But it's this dark juice leaving me I mourn.

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