The Redwoods

He was a sapling when he woke:
oh, he grew too fast, a giant redwood tree
among a forest of redwoods.
When the blades came
men looked up as he stretched into the sky.
And he let them chop him
for he bore no hands to stop them.
From his planks
they made beautiful homes
and carved furniture,
while he was left with but a wound,
his death-rings facing the sun,
exposing the seasons,
the hurricanes, and the wildfires
he had endured.
He would have to learn to accept it,
as such was his fate.
And of his scraps
and barks and branches,
let us make a bonfire, raging into the night.
And of this fire, we’ll warm ourselves
and tell our stories
of the blades that fell us,
as I lay my head on his lap
and look up into the eyes
of the one who stood tall among them all.

// 23 Sep 2020


Like the swift passage of a train,
we fell into one great passion,
a kind of lurch as we tumbled down
on top of each other, embarrasingly,
like they do in the movies; after the brush
of shoulders, after the side glances
and the missed stations, we were,
as fate mishandled it, awkwardly close,
so close I could breathe your scent,
so close you could feel my heartbeat,
and all and everyone thought we were
together, two lovers who belonged
to different cities, now merged on the
floor, united by braking and by falling.
When we got out, it was already evening;
stars spun and we were so drunk in love.

// 14 Sep 2020

Pale Moonlight

Pale moonlight,
pale this mountain range
of him sleeping in the tent.

Soon the sun
will rise over the peak
of his shoulder.

I stroke his hair
and smile at the gentle breeze,
the rustling of trees.

// 09 Sep 2020