Lee Evans

The desiccated wood stares back at me
As I wake in the middle of the night,
My tongue as dry as dust upon the light
Beside my bed; for, while I lie asleep,
My mouth gapes open so that I can breathe.
The dead tree has been mangled by a gale
And twisted; half lies nearby on the trail,
A caution for all carefree hikers’ feet.
I keep a glass of water near the bed,
But not enough to give these fibers tone:
Xylem and phloem splintered, crumbling, dead,
Stripped naked like a hamadryad’s bones—
Especially the skull; eyeballs and tongue
Blown arid like Democritus’ atoms.