Christ in the Murky White Woods

Bounds of eight white towers
with eight white waving cigarettes trees,
below them, clumps of three, green;
all of these, to find it:

No waiting while of culling,
burning famous mulled wine,
His sign, His arms are categorized
by the eight cigarette wounds thereon

And in court the martyr
tells he fought the Beast in eight-part martyr,
with his eyes unfocused and legs crossed,
marked, wiling away white hours,
smoking cigarettes on the rain-covered,
green-lit and -layered stoop

It’s ways
in part remembered just for
the fragrant scent of their long,
smokey tails unrolling, building forever,
misting the air and relieving it of sour, modern smells,
old and hanging well smells in a new-built place,
he says:

Remember me, my pretty, my failed and fragrant beauty,
Remember me, in part, in parting and in place,
Remember me, my loving, remember me in song, in face,
Remember me, the seventh, the strongest and the best,
Remember me with patience and with twenty cigarettes,
For a day will pass, and a day return,
the fall with not a broken back, and learn, and learn

The history is on the trees, you try to read it in the leaves,
you try to read it on the doors, in the pillars,
     page-covered floors,
you try to stretch out and absorb it, unfletch and unmoor it,
you try to feather grounds with arrows,
     just to see if they surround it,
you make a martyr of your chances, spend too many sevens,
you cover it, you swallow, you wait for next tomorrow,
you will find it, you will have it,
     your history is on the trees

It’s in the leaves, it’s in the wind, it’s in the trees,
to find it.

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