Treefingers

Barren trees mourn fallen leaves,
their empty branches snake into the sky like blood vessels.
Roots, deep, wormed through dirt like buried telephone wires.
They communicate through crackling lines,
dry voices tongue smoke down throat:

We like you, like your body.
Like the idea of your body in our arms,
your lips
your eyes
your breasts
and the subtle curve of denim around your ass,
suspended from our fingers.


My apologies to Radiohead, but I needed a title. I think this definitely needs more, perhaps an image of pieces of a person hanging from tree branches instead of leaves. Or is that image implied well enough? I wonder...