My Blue Muse poetry

A Tree You Go Back To

There is a tree you go back to,
one which bears your scar. Like a target,

this coarse bark drew you to it —
blindfolded, if lids were blindfolds

and dizziness formed rings. No moon-
beams pierced the canopy that night,

only snowflakes swirled in your head-
lights, before the abrupt crush of metal

greeting wood. A cruel kiss warmed
by a body — broken like the glass

it flew through — rushing to melt
and stain virgin snow. An encounter

you’re doomed to suffer and rehearse.
The late hour, the mood of an Eagles’

desperate tune. How behind and beside you,
your companions slumped dozing

in the woozy grip of spirits. The steady
whoosh of wiper blades, a metronome

you tracked – sleep another comfort
you gave in to. Folded in double dark,

there came the briefest hush you did not hear,
the slightest curve you did not follow.


Fist published in the fall/winter 2002 - 2003 edition of the Santa Clara Review

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