← v11n1, Spring 2012
Poetry · Volume 11, Number 1

The Fruit Leaves The Tree

Here in long grass

invisible.

That finger so tight

just turned loose—the one

binds planet

to commas, to question marks.

Why let us fall?

Far-reaching arms, galactic leaves,

excrescence of infinity?

We’re not worth keeping?

Served your cycle?

Tired of blossom?

Old, seedlings sprouting wings?

Don’t say, our own trajectory.

Don’t say, drawn by resistless force.

Crash. Impact.

      A new world’s planted.

Only the cycle matters.