I am not pine. Not, NOT.
You fill me. Beer walks in meadow. Meadow is beer.
Look at me in the eyes and say, "Breezily!" We are here.
You seem to be casual. Seem to exclaim words only I can
hear. You walk and everyone knows; clouds echo in darkness.
My void is the goodness; the goodness that is everything.
My voice is caught in my throat, the throat that is not choice.
My mother moves to London, my dead mother, the mother
who wed some man from Penchance; from dusk. He is careful,
he peels back flowers to reveal the dark, sweet nut,
the gentleness of his hands paint pictures. His words are painstaking;
sharp; a list of melodramatic stepping stones.
I am not pine. You walk down the street and dream of inland islands.
A ship is on the water. The water has cooled. It is an island.
We talked about islands; we talked about the fear of them, how they
grow, how they change, how they move. We walk in orchards. Dusk is gone.
The meadow shifts and changes. The meadow breathes life into a dull mind.
You remember the eyes? Anger of death, dying; the taking. The TAKING!
It is you taking me, me taking you and no one knows why. You speak to me
in code. I don't know. Can't grow. Stopped. The ship stops moving on
the waves. His pain, no pain enters, we are. Are.
I am not the broken. The becoming of it. I am not the stale, the wind
that moves the air. I am looking up into the clouds. I think of clouds;
HE moves clouds. Moves them away. Ships on water. Ships on sand. He never
KNEW, never let me know the pain I have caused him. Try, try, don't flinch,
breathe, be. KNOW.
Pain in trees. Squirrels climb up and down. Roots are uprooted. He says, Ha!
To both nature and war. Try? Try!! A sorry-faced man climbs the stairs. His hands are on the banister. He turns away, his face pale and translucent.
So far, so good, o ice that bends and breaks, in Alaska, Illinois,