The anger was a rotten fruit.
Caught in a spiral of forgotten things,
That dreamt of lowly spirals and soft movements.
She said she wouldn’t come. That she should never stay.
Her thoughts were distant and parched as dreams.
Her mind would gently sway.
Back and forth, she left on the perched top of
Branches and trees,
The freedom of thought is a circumference of images,
And things bending in the mile.
The sea turtles have come out to play-
Waving softly their green hands.
It is my month, and I am picking grapes. The sun has come out
To play and the spirals of golden centipedes
Are free of thought and my hunger isn’t aching,
It is aching and homely and my thoughts twirl downward.
The anger is in everything. The anger has sheltered
Great wisdom and my face is not gently scorched nor showered.
And the wanting takes me and shakes me and I am diseased.
The disease is of the mind.
I am forced to make choices between myself and the bed,
Between my eyes and my head.
You are the trees that sway in the wind. I am forgotten.
I am a dream that is dead.
We are cotton candy clouds.
We are things that cannot be seen.
We are a table in a bedroom.