by Jared Carter

We drove up for the game, but failed to see,
beside the two-lane road that led us straight
on through, long stretches where each hardwood tree
was thick with ragged webs. We came back late
and saw – the sun still vibrant in the west –
the woods lit up and whorled with milky light.
Unsettling words like bandaged and distressed
were not enough. We sped on through a night
of mummies come unwrapped, where everything
was choked and mired, and nothing could escape.
And yet I knew each stricken tree encased
unnumbered larvae, that would eat and scrape
the leaves, and by their hunger strive to bring
upon themselves transmogrifying grace.

© 2007 by Jared Carter



About the Author

Jared Carter is a Midwesterner from Indiana. His poems and stories appear online at Archipelago, Centrifugal Eye, The New Formalist, Poetry X, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His fourth book of poems, Cross this Bridge at a Walk, was published in 2006 by Wind Publications in Kentucky.


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