Landscape like a lady’s breast against
the tree tops that wave to each living thing
with faces like mud and those of the white
clouded-sky, some bird song calls to night
and the moon makes faces to the Sunday
morning is only a day away, if you count
shot glasses as a sleeping-aid because only
the tree tops see you as one, single breath
breathing together the exhale of it’s barked
body, and the lady lies there trampled by
some shiny man’s shoes, meant to make
a living off breaking the body apart
dissimilar to the bread and wine
and all God’s people said


Published by celinamcmanus

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