This tired
is a
different tired
the type 
I think 
that trees 
have felt 
surviving the 
woodman’s ax
when all 
the others 
have fallen 
been made 
into other 
things and 
this tree
standing now 
in clearing 
where once 
was forest
and now 
just a 
forgotten tree 

It’s the leash
and the collar
which was worn
now just hang
on some peg
and when spied
can still hear 
the thumpity thump 
of wagging tail 
of once joy
now gone silent 
leash or collar 
ring or picture 
that loss of 
thing or someone 
that hole holds
a special place 
that nothing never 
will ever fill
and how does 
the heart beat
after it’s broken 

If it were
then it would 
but this was
and this will 
gnaw at me 
whittle me down 
from the tree
to the twig
it does nothing 
ever to nurture 
this nature me
it doesn’t prune 
or even shade 
but rather ignore 
and let wither
within and without 

Is this emptiness 
nothing then or 
was it something 
once no longer 
when exactly does 
empty happen before 
or after fulfilled
am I then 
a balloon or
a hole dug
a cup whose 
only reminder of 
once being filled 
are lipstick kisses 

What to write 
what to write 
when writing doesn’t 
what to do 
what to do 
when doing doesn’t 
what to think 
what to think 
when thinking doesn’t 
I guess doesn’t 
I guess that 
I will doesn’t 
then for doesn’t 
seems like the 
do du jour