Trees and the white room filling with the resistance
to trees. Window windowing. Bringing I am over there
with you on the couch in its sadness of arms. Resist
the nature of being inside when outside is nature.
Trees and the white room going about unknowing
the sun. Casts a shadow of burning on the other side
of night is unsided. In the eye of the field would I be
seen if I had not the mark of my body slept there?
Clouds touched over me and I woke to trees
just then stopping in their green the beginning
of brown. A sigh not exactly among them but close
to that "ah well it is time now to die" sound.
Or a click, some days before leaves fall, each stem
opening its valise and putting out its best dress
for the fires. Soon orange trees and the white room
singed. I could on a pyre be such brief smoke.
My ashes one more subtraction for the wind.

—Bob Hicok