The item you were looking for was deleted.

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.

You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.