a month of novembers by Wanda O’Connor

There is a tree
founded in the territory of our blush intimacy
no

the tree, taciturn always, shares poetry from its genetic structure
suture         entering the cove or the cover where else would it enter or how
and from the vast wound cut, uncut,
                                                                 for the explicit, reserved purpose of softening
                                                                        loss

the poem begins
and sounds something like
Prévert

                       Je suis allé au marché aux oiseaux

                                                   …et j’ai acheté
                                                                  des chaînes

o tree, you are having a bout of Mélancolie

mon amour
don’t take these things to heart
     faceless words
no
tree
warm yourself
warm yourself
against the last chill of evening that is so ordinary it hurts

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