Dead trees know, being
wind-taught and carved
by time. No longer desparate
wih foliage, their sap
clotted, roots unclenching,
they point flayed trunks,
unburdened of all
save one or two branches,
like Chinese characters
brushed upon the rice paper sky
or spastic crosses.
It costs them everything.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Notes on Anosmia
One morning several years ago, as my wife, Wendy, and I were having breakfast together, I had…
Empire of Unreality
Shiva Naipaul (1945–1985) was the author of three novels and two books of mordant dispatches from places…
The Dreadful Christ of Pär Lagerkvist
It’s dangerous to meet a god,” says the disgraced Pythia in Pär Lagerkvist’s The Sibyl. Her observation…
