Trade In
The maples redden, dependable as mesas.
At my age, I might still feel the edges
Of crisis sometimes, and the car dealership
Tube men are going epileptic
They are so desperate for a sale.
But under a cuticle of moon, the cedars
Are sharp and dark, and copper beeches
Billow in every season. I know
My body will always be unfamiliar now.
Even words ache.
Even words, hauling their cargo of grief,
Don’t want to say what they need.