Myself.
And it's emotions.
The wind is cool
today, spring, under a green tree
of who-knows-what species.
Can I tell you I still fall in love
with full lips
and impenetrable hair.
Why?
Let's look at this:
Walking around is a practice
in error:
making mistakes wherever you go: tripping
seeing
everywhere your old love....
but walking isn't always that.
It's sometimes when you notice
a small puddle
pushing a thicket of pollen
down the cracks of the sidewalk,
and as it moves you figure out
you still love
things that push,
or push out with the wind.
Am I
committing an error
puzzling this?
and puzzling over the trees?
I'll tell you I've never been
thrilled about pines:
they stick to your fingers
like the past
or fresh dough
with too much yeast.
What are trees, anyway?
A branch is more strung-out
than a wrong note
on a beginner's clarinet,
but it turns and twines
and falls sometimes,
like love sometimes,
that eternal error. Do I love
oak leaves
as much as I think?
Do they wrap me
like a maple leaf would
given the right season & chance?
You know I can prove to you
water is an error:
it disappears in the sun.
But when it
rushes
into a crack on the sidewalk,
an error is something
to hold on to.
Plain American Language
I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...
and placed it inside/my philosophy...
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