forrestry Van Gogh

She lay sleeping inward
to some sorry aproximation of edgewise
(it is cold ) The mountains may
have been a home for her gingham
crease-folds as the older boys slowtalked
her to a smile
dartboard, darts, goodnight
(it is cold out, come close)

if so it led her
to believe (of silt)
the broken worth of whole
some love--
made to think a dandy's arms
were one equal
of her inward sleep and outlights
left to hold the ones in reach

dogwood mountains-soothed (closer still)
her ear with right
handed could-have-beens
and (no one has to know)
she heard it then and would
and would again
speak it to her quiet self

who told her noone
(need findout)
are still across the gully bull
lumberjacking bottles at the evening radio still
(is she canning pears?)
her home-returning pass of porchlights
will pass the static tube submission
at their trigger loud voices 

her footpath shoulders hung
in slow acknowledgement of (silence is golden)
defeatthat no one let her                 hand
                                              held in tears
believe that noone earns such forrestry
or verily survives it, don't if you love it
let it go, the bees are as good as dead
this season-time (the ones not sleeping)

someone is (homeward)
bound to come
along and pave the creekbed
to whole her piecemeal
sapwood footpath home;
to shortcut her relivings with
(it is snowing)
the difference between silences.

Van Gogh
Van Gogh

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