Three Poems

L'écorchée vive
What I long for these days is a wrapping
of skin and subcutaneous fat,
and my soul pladd,
possessed of all the ruminant virtues:
heft, girth and phlegm. Thrift,
no more of this wild taking and spending,
not even the stubbiest
of vestigial wings. A soul without lift,
no yearnings laying waste to it. Not mine,
that heart emaciated by its own desires.

Tree-treachery
Who would have guessed the treachery of birches,
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