Tree Opera
I have taken my madness out into the parking lot
and smoked with it. I have bowed
among the fish bones and rubbed
my hands with natural oils. There are
several lines of poetry I can remember
but cannot bare read. There is
a servant standing beside me
with a glass tray of cups. I cannot hear
the train anymore. Nor the wind
that drives ahead of it. I can only move
inches at a time. Only bend
into your kiss.
My allegiance is to the tree
lit up and dutiful. It is no fault of mine
that we have not lain in the grass
in many months. Somewhere amidst this
my skeleton, never drawn to the sea,
the bureaucratic shore, the way you wade in
and so quickly lose control
of your legs, pulled by some vivid hand.
I cannot stand the selfishness
of the sea, gulls who assemble on a wave
or stand cultish and suddenly quiet
with their stock, spiritual faces raised
to the elaborate dusk.
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