THE LURE
​

They have been here
before, these silent
witnesses on uneasy wind.

There is no time to be
prepared, only
to bow to it.

There is no nylon
line to pull a flashing
barbed-steel thigh
through green-black depths, no
smell of coffee, gasoline,
and motor oil.

The nervous poplars shift
before the breath arrives,
the sap has fallen
down into their feet.