You Can Never Leave

A front arrives, and the trees all shake and shimmy, like your insides. Worrywood is our own meaty middle, and we've got pulp farms and rows to conform to for its commerce, shred the limbs, then laid gently and not so into the long trucks, and off to our ends, glued into pieces from scrap and squished into planes, or gone to lay with the family, in plots they call gardens, as chips.