Monday, February 01, 2010

The Still of the Mountains.

The tall sycamore tree
Pierces through the veil of summer-winter months;
Exhausted out of old breathing sounds.
Sounds thrum. Hum. The wind moans;
It is my mother. The wind is a guest at my house.
Outside my house, the wind mutters and moans
And my baby sister enjoys baby-sitting,
Making me look bad in front of people my age.

I am better off alone.
I am better off not seeing anything. Not driving. Or climbing.
Better off not seeing anything but the river
Gurgling and chuckling to itself. The darkness permeates the world
And the world is whole with its noise,
The world is whole and ripe and the fruit are ripe and thoughts
Trickle like water, trickle through dark things and the darkness
Wans and the moon is bright and full and sometimes
I stare and think about wolves running through the woods,
Running naked and not being able to climb over walls.

The flowers open in spring.
The mood of the spring runs dry and the dryness runs
To the sun and the sun is a great, big ball of rock,
Fierce and hot,
And the sun is spit back out.
I am better off alone.
I am better than the stillest mountain.
I am better breathing what is deep inside of me,
Oxygen fills my lungs and I can see, see the dark things
That wave, move, bend-
Colors flock across the sad, sorry sky.
I am worthless.
The whole of the world is a coin that is tossed on
The bending note of all the oceans-and the oceans are bright
With noise and the noise of the wind moans, cries,
The world is exhausted of its breath.
I can’t see. I am better off alone. I am better
as an illiterate.

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