Yellow Pine, Black Oak


Ten empty cylinders shimmer in the moonlight.
Another, half full, leans against a black oak.
A shirt, a pair of pants, and some shoes
float aimlessly with the crooked night.

Yellow pine needles stab his legs;
stab his arms and hands,
They impale his face.

Bristles lie motionless near his head.

A pinecone drops,
Landing near his neck.
He rolls over and sits up,
groaning.
The man empties the final cylinder.

Eleven empty cylinders shimmer in the moonlight.
They reflect the stars
and the universe.
They reflect his tired face.

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