hiding in trees

men, hiding in trees
what a peculiar form of art
thinking in concealment
has profound pleasures
and ragged little stutters
don't confuse
dreams can make some leap
into those unwindowed houses
smell the sweet confusion
that keeps them in their lairs
footsteps don't leave traces
on ever changing branches
voices don't go echo
keys stay unremembered
and no shelves for oddments
or the past
no cups of tea with gushing suitors
for men
who hide in trees