There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill



and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows



near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted



who disappeared into those shadows.







I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled



this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,



our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,



its own ways of making people disappear.







I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods



meeting the unmarked strip of light—



ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:



I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.







And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you



anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these



to have you listen at all, it's necessary



to talk about trees.





