Ways the willow swishes freely,
washing the wind into the sun.
Child in a tree fort dives fearlessly,
surging with elation to and fro:
over snails and uncut grass,
elements passing, back against
the evening sun.
Waves are the evidence of the ocean’s breathing.
Minds run swift, masterpieces of destinations,
forming their own geography.
Reality burns like a blood-clot -
an over-stuffed museum, updating slow.
Pirates of power and horoscopes bleating,
the only refuge is to forget.
Out through a backyard window, the willow tree
owns both ground and sky.
Imagination comes as suffering’s negation,
potpourri to the stench of debt and worse-things owed.
Destruction overtakes too easily,
like a once-hollow ditch, now satisfied with its
fill of bones. All needs are political. Heaven
comes close in secret Sex, immortalizing flesh,
though never arresting decay.
Child on a vine joined with the ways of the willow,
swinging, thrown-off shoes.