Pine Needles

The fear and hope of a house.
There is an echo.
You could sit bare-ass in moonlight
In the deep forest.
Here’s a story
that’s not one:
A brother took his brother
into the deep of a forest
to sit on pine needles,
to scoff and wait for the moon.
He took him into the deep of a forest
with intent to kill him.
But they got separated
in a stupid sort of game
they agreed to play
in honor of wild animals,
which they were.
They both got laughing
and felt they had hooves,
and now they are there,
bees on their bones
or calling to each other forever,
depending if you believe
and if you love ghosts.
Calling out to each other
with the same degree
of fear and hope.
Like two tin-cans
on a rusty string.
Or maybe texting.
Although one still wants
to kill the other
before they find a way
to enjoy the shadows
as a permanent bed.

There is a heavy nothing
on a killer’s chest.

Because he did not get
to gnaw that bone.

There is an idealism
in that they are
wherever they are.
They’re like a jpeg of the moon.
We are unable to enjoy
anything of them
but the hope that both calls
will be answered at once.

If the voices found each other,
both brothers would be lost.

If the forest keeps them, though,
each in a separate pocket forever,
it is not so bad.

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