Trees

Poem By Charlotte Ballard

Orange lips lick up
The rough moon 'scaped surface
Aged fairies, forty or more
Scamper out screaming
And waving at smoking
Parts of anatomy, I'd
Rather not name.
I pray softly that the
Firemen would not come
And stand sternly by
As I pour more
Gasoline on the still
Growling fire.

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