Trees at night,
In fluorescent street-light
Look, to me, like a skeleton
Their fingers are long,
And the union is wrong -
A delicate, sick sort of specimen
No ancient scholar would think
The universe could shrink -
Contort - so that these two may meld
Organic bark thread -
Made, artificially, dead
By bulbs knowing how branches are held
Bare bones against the dark
Quivering, pale in the park
Creatures of a ghostly constitution
Once made mighty at dusk,
Now a worn-wooden husk
No longer sleeps - or revels - in illusion
Stripped of their mysterious power,
As the lamps switch on at the hour
They are frozen in bright, brittle stillness
Exiled from black forest waves,
More the patrons of graves -
Stricken with an industrial illness.
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