yellow plastic tape
hangs low on the branches
to mark the perimeter of the old forest
where the police stopped cleaning up
years ago. hikers still encounter
stunted apple-men with faces half-eaten and black
in its deepest corners: quiet residents
hanging in the recesses of some
national collective
you can come here, sings the forest;
you will be welcome;
you can join me in silence,
and with bold knots tied across your throats
in the endless invention of the desperate,
you do.
whitecapped Fuji
does not balance your deeds;
he crouches over the graveyard
to stir the gentle canopy.
