Entering the woods
on trunks, the slash of a sword
echoes the wild call of hunting
The broken branch like a finger
The dusk begins to swell
I think of blood, the wound
and the girl clinging to the tree, praying
The root full of moss climbs out of the ground
Black snake twists, moving towards a brook
I do not have a leeway, but retreat to myself
wandering on crossed river banks
and enjoying seeing exterior within
Leaves rattle
Wind whistles
Fruits on trees begin to show metamorphose
Heads of horses, ox, birds, and leopards
poking through leaves and making face at me
I barely hear what they are saying
and don’t know what they
symbolize and indicate to me
Otherwise, I would write a divine comedy
from beneath the root, till
the dawn aimed at by a top of the tree
But this is not Dante’s dark woods where he got salvation
There is neither Virgil who leads the way
Nor the fairy named after ex-lover
leading transcending
I soliloquize all the time
I am my own woods