The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.
If we are the trees, words are our roots; and we grow as we write
We don’t want to focus on the trees (or their leaves) at the expense of the forest.
The trees show definitions of themselves subtly like the face of a man.
I don’t existmetal pressed to pagesspilling blood, inkin vein each thought ragesSunlight shootingthrough a forest of pinesblack top windingand yellow dotted linesI am not hereonly a deep aching,a lightning flashand a tree trunk breakingSheets once...
We made love like two trees on a breezeless day. Neither one of us moved for hours.