From living with the trees
In the future
Instead of troglodyte central here
With its trilobite bytes
And mastodon remains
From the swamp tar that was
Primeval Arctic terrain
Dessicated like street defecation
As the large leaves hold
All radiance
In quivering bowls.
The whole of nature
Hails my return,
What once sat silent
As I rubbed the pollen
Off its stems.
My leaving, it turned out,
Changed them,
Though it seems the trail
Is abandoned,
The plangent cries a long
Suppressed, uncontradicted
Explanation,
The rabbits under brush
A mirror sound,
As if with all that's hidden
There is nothing
I hadn't heard -- New birds,
Branch formations,
Stream curvatures
To take me from the stasis,
As this canyon keeps the sun
From being bored.
That sound the palms make
To translate the wind,
The way they wave
In effigy,
Reaching fronds to my hands,
Bobbing limply
Around a centrifugal point.
The world down here
Is more a map
Of what may occur
Than something -- like that --
Actually happening,
Or a train track
Where people's plans
Become extensions,
Each connection shining.
The impenetrable stasis
Of a world thought away,
Was merely envisioned
To envelop with spray,
Static and feedback
The indomitable stone
Of no meaning,
What the lines in our plays
Depend on, like spiders
Need nets
To dangle on strings
Swung by source consciousness.
The sand fleas
Almost give you
The hallucinatory,
As the sea sometimes
Throws off a shade of blue
So impossible
You could say it was imagined.
They drink shots in elder nooks
To such heady rationalizations
To make the way things are
Seem a dream,
The surface ever glistening,
The unseen
Not even seen.
