I.

Pines have lean souls and never feel trapped
in the forest.

They are in perfect health and beautiful.  The salesman says this, like a pediatrician
to the mother with fluttering, drained hands.

The starry lambent light makes way for no cars in the parking lot,
a long summer impeaching November-December’s wealth of sales,

chronic restocking of gin-scented needles. Indoors, the night riddles with quiet.

II.

When the natural world recycles, the artificial never dies, becomes a chilly filibuster.  Landfills of winter-bones acquire and remain, hushed and crowded, like a mob of pre-disposed bodies.