poem

Dark soil and tall sky
Majestic fish perch in the tree tops

Light sand and deep sea
Schools of birds wave as banners

Here I lie on forest floor
Crawling through mud with my mind
It still sounds foreign for
Me?

Oh wind, thou cruelest bitch
I can hardly perceive,
And still you will not leave.
Even the meadowlark who sits on that tree
Will protest my presence with its calls.

O, Spring has come, suddenly. Like
mongols sweeping the hills.
And every parcel the hoofed beasts
trod
Comes to life, thickets and grassèd sod.

Half a million years of toil.
Hoover Dam, you survivor. You sole survivor
ten thousand hence.
Hence the end.
Is that all there is to say?
It is of no concern anyway.
It has no impact as far as the eye can see.

Poetry is such a buzzkill.
But not always. There are poems
for all sorts of things.
Peace, laughter, disturbance.
But right at this moment, no thanks.
No thank you poetry,
I don't know if we can ever be more than just friends.