in the park i saw the last tree, and i laughed at it
as if it was a hobo and i a cruel child.
when i check the shelves i find nothing but
incestuous ramblings, feral.
i wish myself a cockroach, for i need an excuse to drink.
my poetic angst is leading my hand
away from the paper. i want to throw stones at it,
but it is no bird.
silver disquietude in a barrel of lead;
i am blisters and veins and boredom,
and the sun refuses to set.
i want to sit in the grass until the ferns
grow through me, until my skin withers on
the leaves and my eyes start up into the
unsetting sun, lidless.
there is a man in the garden,
the back door rustles when he speaks.
i bring him offerings, grapes and
thoughts that i've forgotten in the yard;
they're drenched and soft and he devours them without making a sound.
he tells me of the flight of the merl.
i don't listen.