Sick Amour

The trees themselves are shelter.  Standing vigilant, close together, thin and flexible.  The highest branches are reaching for heaven, fingers to flutter against the harp of the sky.  The sound of the wind multiplies in the canopy.  Night is coming.  The green leaves are a conspiracy.  They are growing from the green of their promise, into the black of the encroaching night.  I fall to my knees, forward, face first into the padded adversary of the forest floor.  It absorbs me.  I roll over.  The thickening clouds, the leaves, my own heavy lips obscure the stars.  My last thoughts are the anxious mantra:  It is going to rain.  

Sick amour, the Russian I love, the ponderous pine that is as rigid as my desire was once, as certain.  The slippery elm sounds like a snake that takes its chances.  The mag knows only a thing or two about the hunger in my chest, the nut in my scrotum.  Even the acorns come from a place that is ok.  They are as aggressive as the will of god.  They are as invasive as the lies you lock away from me.  Alone in the garden, I spruce up the gangly branches.  I am making this bower beneath the towering Sequoia.  I am pining for you to join me here in the shadows.  Your ass pinned beneath me on a moss thick mattress that is as cool as the earth, sleeping.