Yesterday I tired of trees

Yesterday I tired of the trees,

the budding elm, the swaying fir,

or windswept madrone.

I didn’t want the smell of pollen

or green things growing,

or the musk of dark earth

heavy with spent seed.

Even your touch disturbed

the hairs on my forearm

from their place,

and your voice,

soft against my neck’s stiff crook,

was more than I could bear.

Instead I sunk beneath words

following their lead

to images of a rubbled shoe

a careless child must have lost.

I turned myself into thumbs

in love with the touch of glass

lulled by greased friction

and a maze of certainty

I could not escape.

Today a pileated woodpecker

came knocking on my mind,

forcing me from my glowing altar

into air heavy with tomorrow’s rain

and I sat

weeping on damp grass

watching stink bugs

congregate on the window screen.