subject to a tap on the
index finger the bleeder of
trees in the winter is
summoned, a mistaken identity
he is taken away and never
missed, a sapling grows
in his place, holding a polished
post mortem knife to the veins of its brothers
their blood boils in cauldrons
kept out back in a rusty shack
and the vanished tender's agony
is slowly spread on everyone's smile
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