On the Trees in the Night

I’d like a tomb for each poem, please,
Or not a tomb, a stone.
Yes, the bad ones. Yes, the long ones.
I’d like a stone for each.

Build me a carved snake of my days
That glides through its own stones
You can tilt up to find the words
That no one wants to say

But said and then fled for the shame—
Of what, no one can say.
All this in a grove of shade trees
Where gods fell to their knees.

To Be Seen By No One

But still to be,
And to be known
To one’s own self,
To that weird beast

That can’t quite be
Life on its own,
But can be more
Than its own life.

You might like that,
If you’re like me.
Of course, I can’t
See you, then, and

You can’t see me.
But you know these
Small words that sink
In your night ears.