Leaving

[smokingboot]

'Why then', I said, 'it’s true
You are dead after all.'
The men who cut you down from the tree
Said the noose grew out of you
Into the moss
Under the eel marsh
Where something was always singing.
On the road like a signal
lay a part eaten frog.
I told them ‘it isn’t what you think,’
And they were interested for a moment
But there’s nothing to be said if
they can’t understand why it had to be here,
Here
Where cicadas crack their skins
And the trees leave their pitiful bones