by the 12th century, they had killed all the shells
I think I had a dream of trees
tall, maybe but maybe their tops were severed
forest like a watercolour
a poorly mixed one at that
paper kept too long in sun curling itself at the touch of colour
paper (in my dream) washed over too much sopping
a fetid smell could be organic matter rotting
on the brush
I am sure I had a dream of forest ground
where leaves came from somewhere
but where no one in the city could explain
I am sure that in my dream
the ground
was too hard
to dance on
so I paddled their canoe
slipping through water
brackish and hostile to terrestrial plants
so I could touch the fog
fog like those cones of cotton candy
handfuls of them
at the feet of carneys hawking their games
No comments:
Post a Comment