A forest away from the pulsations
of thinking.
A forest still as raindrops falling off red pine needles.
My ancestors. In this forest.
I am not alive, in this forest.
I know as a ghost knows,
a lovely, fragile, shale hunger
returning broken from my hands
hung between the womb and
wilderness,
as it is born, a great disk-shaped
system of gas, an accident of the cosmos.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, The Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, Havana Times, South China Morning Post, The Buffalo News, and more.
See all his poems on Tea House here.
