Poetry / Recession

For lack of sunlight, I'm out of work. I sleep and dream of leaves and how i might infect them with all these poison apples in my guts and everything that's black and worm-worn there. Then i think on the utility of trees. All our multitasking. How we piss fruit, and shit air. In winter, we rest. Our branches dance independently, but only in the fiercest, ice-choked, winds. Buried in snow and sentiment, the leaves have been quiet for some time. We consider dormancy, and the privacy it brings.

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