Tintamarrasque
When one sees those trees so far gone
In rot that nothing left of them stands
Save for one side of the trunk, the holes
Shot through with light so they look
Like those cutouts one sees at county fairs
With oval holes where faces should be
So children can be photographed being
Superheroes or animals or celebrities,
One is sometimes tempted to go around
To the other side and fit one’s face
To the hole where a branch once grew.
But in the woods one is so often alone.
In the absence of an audience,
The transformation must be internal.