I am again 

walking to the 

apple orchard 

on the other side 

of the woods 

behind my 

parents’ house 

under maple 

and eastern 

redcedars  

paper birch 

and various firs 

This story gets

simplified into 

energy time Or

the millions 

of years 

it took to 

create the job

the loan

the banking collapse

the water cycle 

each election

the bunker buster

My generation

is dying and so 

are all the rest 

under the sun 

in the arbitrary 

location of all 

this violence

we call 

The Nation

I am jealous 

of the way 

a branch

breaks

burdened with 

snow under

the fulling 

moon tragic

and languid

This isn’t really

the language of

disaster 

touching tho it may be

I am sorry

for this sentiment

This cowardly retreat

to the romance 

of words while

nearly all

my friends 

like me 

are waiting 

for the future

to happen

for The Nation

to split open

and rot

It would be nice

to hear

the way 

those twigs

would break 

under my feet again

To feel 

the weight 

of apples

in my backpack 

watching the smoke

line from 

the chimney

plotting my

course home