Lodgepole Pine

Cliffside

lodgepole pines:

the coastline’s

green bloodline

in decline.

I’m supine

and resigned

to be fine. 

What's one more

crossed drawn line

in the sand —

in my hand, 

one more plan

abandoned? 

I refined

the strychnine, 

mixed it

with quinine

and thickened

with red wine,

then mainlined

that moonshine —

the needle as unreal as my spine.

And all this ocean breeze

never succors me to breathe.

It’s just another westerly

calliope.

And the stars over the sea,

they never shine for me.

Completely out of sync,

we seem to be.

It’s only when I blink

they’re twinkling, 

and I cannot adjust

my shuttering. 

Cliffside

lodgepole pines:

the coastline’s

green bloodline

in decline.

I’m supine,

but don’t try;

I’ll be fine.

Don’t try; I’ll be fine.

Don’t try; I’ll be fine.

Don’t try; I’ll be fine.

Don’t try; I’ll be fine.

Don’t try; I’ll be fine.

Don’t try; I’ll be fine.

With each lie,

the pines creak, sigh.