The tree's calling again. Again. I
heard it once, that night
I sat on the grass
when the rest of the park
was black, watching it
not move. It almost seemed
to tug- or clog my throat
with leaves, like a gutter.
For a moment I thought I
saw myself there,
beneath it; that I had left
myself behind.
A coda. An after-image.
Splitting off
in blades of green.
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