There are woods, wooded,
dressed in mushy thickets and old remembrances.
There are woods with animals,
playthings and nuggets.
There are woods in dilemma,
trees and grass in a morass,
with sheaves of rain,
slithering down huts and parched homes.
There are woods that are dry on a high,
with bystanders as silent passers by
in mushy erect wombs
of a day yet to be born.
We are shorn.
Yes, we are shorn,
of woods and their speedy catapults of desire.
We hire these woods of a strange nostalgia,
to be a raconteur of woods.
Woods that are desperate.
Woods with gunmen and con men.
Woods that are open.
Woods that are closed in wonder,
to tear asunder the myth of woods.
