Aug 06, 2006 23:05
His terrain is crimson, tented, orange, terribly
brilliant: I am expectant as a lake to its river.
Pockmarked are my shores -
little boys and girls dig and will dig; what? You
thought they’d quietly sit, learning
the lessons it took you some thirty
years or more to learn? I have yet to
discover that I am close-bottomed,
filling up with silt and sand, mulch
and human filth, waste and refuse, underuse,
overarching, leaves.
You will meet the meanness in me, just
by doing what you’re doing:
you will think it terribly cool and forget
that it is
mean.
I want to be the river,
but unferried.