Logs
Giants lie entangled on wet sand,
storm-fallen and hauled out of the sea,
oaks, skin-smooth, naked and unashamed,
crossing each other, touching at the thigh,
one foot wedged between the other’s knees,
hidden lovers condemned to cling
in hell, snatched from flight and stuck on shore.
Trees uncrowned, shorn of leaves and branches,
won’t wear black veils to mourn great loss;
instead, they boast of shaking out their hair
in dress-up greens, the sap still coursing
through shaded arms, and they remember
leaves kissing across a road. So they live
in raw truth, rot-hollow. Without regret.
