Things mean, and I canít tell them not to.
Things they moralize, to meet
my expectation, because I want advice
on how to live. The seaweed says:
This is a river; I am river-weed.
Which of these/my clumps do you want me to be (say)?
The closest one. That more animated brown one
rolls and unrolls its lengths of hair
and makes me feel unwell.
You quieter green clump, why donít you speak.
A most beautiful bright blue bird
knifed down the stream
and veered left at the oak,
where the stream bends. A
male bird. He says: I am the
a blue muscle that centers past
a blue muscle roping future in
as past behind me cedes
blue muscle flying future into past
blue muscle flashes future
instantaneous wingbeat pasts.
Under the bird, forest and water. Above
the bird, forest and cloud.
The twig trails in the water.
Twig-end disappears, twig resurrects
in reflection and continues down,
leads back to the tree, the undertree
that lives on the top of the water.
If I penetrate (look beneath) the water, the twig end
dangles and the forest
The bird was a flying fist
It smashed up nothing
I pursued it round the corner,
a blue punch
my violence goes on out along the stream.