sweet triumph

 

"misery", yes, that dreary thing,

which scratches down your throat and

makes your heart sag. a lemon tree --

that is your hope, sitting under it,

the white goat-monster, the pheasant

pleasantly, presently on the cliff of tomorrow.

 

so anyway, floatation devices are quite

optional, to say the least --

but, you know, still, inside everyone

there is a child screaming "beastly virtue!

please help me," and there will never be,

never was,

not until you dream of summer's marrow.

 

he, she, me

we all, dearest of the ground...

the dirt, the air, the lightning...

was there ever a song? a tree?

a tree-song? or might thee be familiar

with her eyes, the blood underneath them,

the gun-shot upward that struck wind

against an open mind. plead, beg, you

rabbit, silly and frightened in your

world of time and cherry paint.

 

i was never a word or a paradise,

who told you otherwise?

slopes of bruised knees and dead

leaves consume you -- here, have a drink:

to love, to cancer, to the blandest of

lives; now, dear, live until you faint.