My gaze is nailed into the fog
of a dark and vast landscape
of crooked trees and pools and puddles and dried up ponds.
I'm stretching the veins that carry the blood into town
for the ghosts and the midwives and the cobblers and the priests
to trade and hypothesize, and let them talk.
A prenatal sentence of thirty years
left me with nothing more than all I need
And now that I'm free and running wild and wicked
I'm staring with disbelief at the blunt and bloody hayfork I'm holding
And the quirky shapes and colors of mud, emerald. Brick and bone, their beauty unfolding.
The water keeps running it always runs down it never runs out
And on its track, springs and wires and dust of memory slide and stick
And while you fuss and complain it slips past your toes and your fingers
I smile with my feet as I walk on the branches and twigs and the roots of time
and watch the stuff that you threw away with absent hands
and I give it names like new born babies
And I pick them up and let them go and try to get lost
and forget who I am every second of the day