Trey Moody



This Forest Isn't a Room

The trees are always laughing down on you.
They bare their branches—you stare at your legs.
The trees and you are different—they have water, continually consume.
They have trunks wider than your body.
Their trunks don’t shake when they laugh, you notice.
You cannot remember what your body does,
but you think your body’s not a tree, a tree not a body.
The trees shake with cold like you shake with cold.
The trees, they shake
their leaves like paper-thin walls in the wind.


The Space of This Room is Sickening

The walls tall, the ceiling always
disappearing. Bedposts support the shower
curtain—dry. The space of this room
is too much. Always night, always stars,
never moon. Clouds don’t move
fast enough, drape their rain. This space,
there’s space, but they’re two people.
These people, these spaces, no ceiling.
No ceiling, no moon, no sun. This space
is a square’s four sides. Below: dirt, mud,
patch of grass. It’s always the patch of grass
between them. The space, the grass, the clouds.
The clouds, the rain, the night.
And always, always—the roof’s blowing off.

past simple home