The men hold still—the years
behind them and the years to come—
because no sooner do you move than
the picture is ruined
There is something the tree is starting to say
for they have opened a mouth on the trunk
and words big as bibles
lie round about the stump and spruce gas
pours from the wound of the tree
the wood of the whale
a thousand miles of forest in full sail
No doubt the photographer quickly encased
that frozen moment as the mouth of time spoke
until the tree bowed terribly from the waist
and the men ran wrong
for their lives—
headlong
into the downfalling generations
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