in the park i saw the last tree, and i laughed at it

as if it was a hobo and i a cruel child.

i want to sit in the grass until the ferns

grow through me, until my skin withers on

the leaves and my eyes start up into the

unsetting sun, lidless.

there is a man in the garden,

the back door rustles when he speaks.

i bring him offerings, grapes and

thoughts that i've forgotten in the yard;

they're drenched and soft and he devours them without making a sound.

he tells me of the flight of the merl.

i don't listen.

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