It seems to me like the forest will look more like this:
barren
an olive, on a toothpick
one side x, one side o
— O
how my brain feels
hollow, punctured.
With just a word,
he punctures me
an olive on a toothpick
flesh purses into an “O”
and I’m pitted
on my back—“X”
begs—hit me here,
my strong side,
but I lie mangled
among other pitted O’s
like a bug on its back and rolling
into others, without limbs
to move freely, without,
only to roll,
empty, blind
mouth open
O
drunken library 