The ravine is littered with fallen branches
From elm trees refusing to become corpses,
With the crumpled bark of sycamore
And the decaying cedar that crackles
Like popcorn when you put it into the fire.
Beat your chest, lover, and summon the gods
Who made you to gloat upon your power,
Your camouflaged care, your with-one-paper
Kindling responding to the placement
By intentional hands, bringing me beauty. Continue reading “What Remains”
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 