Kristi Conley
Inspiration Piece

Shangrila Willy
Response Piece

Untitled

Even the spotted
and speckled
tree — hard gnarls

and knots rising
from white land
like kneaded dough

that’s lost its yeast
and been bitten
to holes like cheese,

pleated into itself,
like the sad jowls
and almost mouths

of an accordion
that’s gone to seed
and squeezed

its last wheezing
punch of air, fraying
from split seams,

like an old man doubled,
bronchial twigs inbred,
and cane forgot– cannot

unheed the soft,
inky bloom singing
from the hand of Spring.

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