‘Cypress scepters in the rocks, paint-green water...’

Cypress scepters in the rocks, paint-green water 

crept like shadows about our feet. Swallows 

ricocheting overhead in aimless cursive like the 

accident of evolution, the calligraphy of the 

wind. An evening is like a postcard so easy to 

cherish. The easy memories. The familiar 

grooves, well-worn, my vision slides into. 

Where are those buried ones, the dusted with 

forgetfulness? There, the untrodden soil 

unstamped by the wheels, still loose about the 

fingers. The time I was nine I told my parents 

every once in a while a moment comes and I 

know I am really alive again, I exist and I know 

it and it is as though I have been unaware all 

this time and there arrives a second so vivid 

suddenly and they said are you okay I get taken 

to the hospital they sticker wires to my head and 

told me sleep why couldn’t that be beautiful. 

Why couldn’t we resist. Wherefore did the 

anxiety arise like dew, indiscriminate. You 

couldn’t forget this now, though the spines 

would crack like whips and the spells would 

pass and the results were inconclusive and we 

all just lived with the symptoms, symptoms of 

nothing like your fabric flowers. The 

arrangement we outlived. The water we could 

not, the fire we could the scissors we could not, 

take me those geraniums break me the cassettes. 

Slurp me like a spool and pin me by my neck. 

The flowerbeds, the furrows were ordained.