woodpile
I feel in my body change,
changes.
I feel changed, change-less.

Stacks of wood, chopped, but glum,
Behind brokedown houses.

I refuse.

Naked trees, like half-brothers, bare and emaciated,
Reaching tongue to cheek to hard-scrabble frozen ground.

I wrap my arms around the trunk’s bark,
I slide painstakingly deliberate to the cold earth.