All summer the trees in the park
have been plummeting down.
Most wait until dark, when the skaters
and smokers and dealers have made their way home,
and the woman who walks in a circle
with prayer beads has finally gone.
In their very last hours, the trees watch the sky
for the first drop of rain or a glimpse of the sun.
In the pebbledash houses,
on streets in this city,
we’re sleeping so thoroughly
sunk in the fog of our beds
that nobody hears the last word of the oak or the elm,
what the cherry tree said
or the creak or the thud
and nobody sees the trickle of sap
is actually blood.
But just before sunrise,
the ravens fly up
like a cutaway shot in a movie
where something too awful
has happened to watch it head on—
whatever’s been done by the man
with the knife or the gun or the bomb.
Read more from Issue No. 23 or share on Facebook and Twitter.