Come and sit with me in the gnarled
palm of the cypress tree – half a dozen
trunks grown from one root – and I will tell
you my plans. There are those who
walk with caves dragging at their feet;
for them we shall be the flashlights.
For those with masks around their necks
we shall bring the mirrors. Language
as beads on a finite string: like, love, loath,
we carry them with us and hurl them
at the silence, which shrinks and expands
with each death, every tiny birth.
Laughing, you tell me cypresses
cannot grow up here. I am alone, then.
Aaron Kreuter
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