‘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.