Skin graft

Run, run, run.
won't you walk wild to
the chopped down giving tree?
shallow embarrassment,
disgust,
and hate barricaded in this shell.

will they remember in a hundred years?
sitting on the side of the road
waiting for us to chop your
home down.

murder in the setting light
we will not come quiet
into the sunset
behind pine tree silhouettes.


the nightingale chirps
off a bending branch
and we're brought to our knees
by her song once again.