The tops of trees
for Hilda Doolittle (H.D.)
Some men are weak
and some men are strong
yet some reach the tops of trees with their song.
Some women have large hands,
and some women have small
yet some women stand on their hands, till they are no use at all.
Some words will run
and some words will fall
Tell me, friends, do these words make any sense at all?
Because the world did not.
That world was a leaf
that world was a stone
that world was just creatures stuck, or drifting alone.
I once was a child
but before I could speak
I was coerced to be well-versed, in Latin and Greek.
I am now scattered Polaroids
I am now a silly dream
I am now a peachy sherbet, covered with whipped cream.
And the leaves they make patterns
where the sun hits the shade
and the sun is now hiding, where you dig a hole with a spade.
You look at the tops of trees
while children play in traffic
avoiding watercolor images, so choreographic.
You songwriters, and poets.
You rise to the tops of trees
are you still looking for love?
Here I am “realizing self, an octave above.”
Tickle your toes. . .
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