Poem about a Clearcut

If aliens came to
talk with me,
I too would assume such
twisted visages.

Attempted armors like
an elephant’s slow eyes or
the broad smile of the
elusive platypus.

But only my nephew comes
to speak with me
and when he does
I run
not unlike a drunk
escaping a squirt gun.

An inheritor of invertebrate
evasions I hide,
worming inside the wood,
bending my form to
painful alien contours.

Hunched, twisted
I am still while
snot drips from my nose
in the rain
but I still cannot
grasp their plan.