Sibylline

American Poetry Review, The, May/Jun 2005 by Revell, Donald

My trees are gone yellow to the East.

That's wrong.

That's the afterlife,

Or Argicida at least.

And late at night in the deep chair

When the movie is black & white,

It finds one Deborah Kerr

In tears on the beach in furs,

Connecticut, not Elysium,

And the moon rising from an ocean made of paper.

Why this wild longing

For the world of light?

It's wrong.

It's killing my trees.