The odor is unmistakeable—
delirium as entrance to an underworld,
solemn as a pillar of salt. A palmful
is enough to change fire into a wreath
you can lay on all the graves of your dead.
Is this why you want to sit
with an apron full of these branches,
snipping off the green digits as though
they made up time you might
still retrieve despite its passing?
Every night, you descend deeper
into the twilight of dreams. There are
whole towns in the distance; streets,
steeples, groves of green. A path
to the river, winding like a sheet.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
