I know nothing of the
sap that drops
into the
psalms of my mouth
but
you say it makes us pure
and my songs are carried by the wind between the leaves
and my cries are carried
through the branches
but it won’t tell anyone
that it also brings
the bitter end
you are the tree
that I nailed myself to
in these wintry woods
This work originally appeared in the print edition of Locust Review #8.
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