Stephen Mejias

a million billion fruit trees, frozen

fruitless, frowning
locked in avant-garde poses posing

a post-modernist’s dance
an infinite tangle of aching angles

shrugging shoulders dropping to awkward elbows bending
to empty hands ending in crooked fingers hoping /

pleading /

wondering why why and why /

looking seriously sorrowful in this,
their seasonal supplication;

wishing only for something sweet to give.