Beneath the Loam

Vincent van Gogh: Pine Trees against an Evening Sky, 1889. (Van Gogh Museum)

Beneath the Loam

Face up on the forest floor: 

contemplation of light entering the canopy 

on a slant--how dust motes

climb around inside it, disorganised 

and weightless. 

Drum of discord

thumps its insistent rhythm

on the underside of each leaf, 

pervades the air with its hunger.

Small tremor at regular intervals 

disturbs the sailing of particles.

Soul slides into hair that mimics roots:

strands find their way to nourishment.

Soul shakes itself from split ends,

is absorbed with the body by earth: skin 

the color of loam, mottled and porous--

thin layer of protection.

Drum beat drags self from self,

anthem for the hurting--

general disbelief in this congregation of trees,

their girth. Their texture and their living.

Below: leaves obscure features: 

Knees, toes, tip of nose,

even mounds of breasts

sink beneath the loam. 

Disappearance of corpus--

eradication of the whole.

And still the drum. It’s what remains

in the end. Disembodied staccato,

alive on its own, shakes cells apart 

and hastens the dissolution

of all that is human.