Joshua Ware


the trees are fast with frost
as you walk through the park
snapping photos with your camera phone
drunk and weeping
for the life you’ve left behind
and a love who’s fled
to cornfields. Grey skies
are neither omen nor metaphor
you say, but the change of season
works hard upon your soul
or whatever it is that informs your feelings.
Your voice broke and halting on
the telephone scares me. In these moments
I do not know you
only the distance unraveling
between us. How many trees
litter the landscape, the desolate plains
that separate? Some Trees answers
all of these questions, numbers no longer
relevant, and either way, neither
one of us is counting.



I do not own a sailboat. Greek literature
bores me, Greek history bores me. I will
never concern myself with down payments. I will
never buy a house. If there is a rustic life, I will
incinerate woodland landscapes with homemade torches
fueled by lighter fluid purchased
at our local hardware store. If there is a pastoral life, I will
slit the throats of shepherds and leave their flocks
in fields, sacrifice them to the elements
hunger and predators. In this silence, I will
be the destroyer of everything you love.
You must speak in order to save them.

%d bloggers like this: