Long Rows of Old Childhood

My months are getting longer.

Long rows of harsh-barked oaks, old childhood trees.

Running, running, running fast my hands along the dry trunks,

feeling little bits of torn fur in this half-light.

Quiet sounds up there,

dark canopy of branches, flitting,

rumbling whispers.

You need to stop following me.

Rolling in and out between stiff fingers,

lithe, little bits of fur and particles of bark.

Like a foam-lipped dog,

kicking out its legs behind its rolling neck,

echoing through the wild woods.

Echo, echo, echo,

follow, whisper, running!

Bark like the soft shutting

of a wooden trapdoor on an empty stage,

no curtains, curtains, curtains rippling billows in the wind.

Sounds of many, many steps down corridors and avenues.

Rolling little bits of fur down deep forever-rows

of oaks, the dark trunks of old childhood,

off into the blinding darkness of

someway, someway, someway out.

Hands still holding to the barking limbs, the old child.

If we get out, I say, we'll leave this place together.

My months are getting longer.