Sunday, August 20, 2006
WHY DO I WRITE?
In the forest, we were not able to see the trees.
My teacher put them in his suitcase
and walked into the night.
When he got to the edge of the world
he turned and pulled up the road.
Cracking it once, like a sheet or whip
he held it under his chin and folded it right.
I pointed. This is the way out of here
but there were no roads.
I pointed. This is our forest
but there was nothing.
The crickets said something that I will not repeat
Six jeweled piglets lapped at the droplets of my brow.
Seven pure swallows brushed their wings against my shadow.
T-shirts are silent, cotton, easy to launder.