Monday, June 14, 2010

The Lakeshore Trees

The lake shoreline is waiting for the day
to break its bones upon
the roaring mane of golden dawn, the roaring mane entangled on
the dreams of every dreamer in the night before,
now gone, gone, now gone.

The lakeshore trees are standing till the water breaks the sky
and floods the firmament of swimming eyes and draws
the thoughts of fishes' heads above, aloft, and high,
where they will gasp that it is dry,
where they will drown upon the altar of the sky;
where they will see the lakeshore trees give up their foothold in the green,
will watch them tumble, murmur, slide into the watery blue sky
where they will lie, observed by fish,
till all of the ripples
have died, died, have died.

Atop the bottom of the lakebed you will find me catching wry
as fishes dart amongst the branches, crying, burbling in their cry:
"Help us, watch us, we are flying,
we are drowning,
these are trees in which we die!
These trees are dreams, and we are moving
in the sky, the sky, the sky!"

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