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27. Trees

Anne Gorrick

A Japanese maple’s dark red glare
Bloodgood sheeted outside a green environment
I will not say absolutely anything
A white pine crowned with festivals
The tree as divine presence
muddled branches, alarmingly
mathematically divided into a thousand like love
At night he imitates the noise of rain on her skin

To                             Dark red leaves, a profound impression of green
lose                           A parasitic biology sets up an imperial scared dance
                                Her regard for the gods of existence
blossoming                The branches of the camphor frighten her
                                estranges her from regard
                                Because the tree is divided into 1,000 branches
Because                    it describes a woman in love

A dark red book and a willow, an orange tree
Emperors and saints dance between the pine needles
The holidays imply the gods as existent
The camphor’s grace grows implicitly
Rain gives a correct and pleasant imitation of itself

Chinese                     The orange wood, five-needled
                                Red darkly from the green of a thing
                                opened deeply into another shining wood
Chinese                     The gods adjusted themselves above her into a parasitic biology
                                She can taste the dance of their holy empire
                                Thought always exists as the gods of existence
hawthorn                   But “palaces protracting along three edges…”
                                May rains give an imitation of goodness

When the green of the thing into deep red darkness: the tree
Biology is parasitic
New stars are about an hour long, from end to end:
the length of the dance of an empire
A holiday tastes of nothing when it’s gone
Favor camphor in order for a thousand trees to call one person “in love”
The silence peels away any troublesome song
The rain imitates his good sense

She                           Pine, box elder, orange timber
                                She is huge with numbers, luminous
                                Thinking of trees, a form of god’s existence
the                            The feeling of being very good: all the timber in the world
                                When entanglement, estrangement become astonishment
                                What tree branches call love
hour                          The rain gives a sentiment of goodness

She will be used alongside pine
during the dance of an empire
Used and pine, maple and orange wood five needled
The dark red is engaged deeply, a bright lost to the woods
Digital, relative, spindle
He thinks the gods always exist in the achievement of existence
The feeling is extremely good, there is peace in the woods
even the camphor is benevolent
Relative that tangle, the I becomes estranged
1,000 branches describe her as if by telephone

(not)                         Large, numerical, relative
                                she becomes fact, a perfection expressed in parasite
for                            All good avoids you, he thinks
                                1,000 bridal branches divided into love, into cedar
delight                       Healthy in the rain, the finer feelings of imitation

If the red pine, then the orange wood, five needled
A red from the green of the thing
opened deeply
Dark leaves, a bright impression
She is forced to express a parasitic biology
In her, the empire dances like time…or a dress
As for the gods of existence, their thoughts are of trees
There is a point: good very, but what it is? Felt
Avoid camphor, her eyes never lift

Luminous                  The estrangement of the I from the unexpected
                                In meaning, what the woods call “love”
                                is really 10,000 people in a photograph
                                Branches of Himalayan cedar: a thought palace assembled
                                Like orange annoyed by wood
                                He is red from the green of the thing
lost                           a dark sheet over the forest, and occasionally a bright impression
                                The holy dance of the realm,
                                She likes holidays that look like you
beyond                      Always a concern to the gods of existence:
                                their thoughts of trees point out how belief is quite good
love                          She is their address, an imitation of their goodness

Anne Gorrick

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