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IX.
Wanting to zen into Spring like the swollen river outside my
back door, the gigantic crow top-heavy in the tree outside
my bedroom window, everything beginning
to unwrap and unwrinkle itself, and here I am with
my Skull Cap and Passion Flower, Melatonin, Valarian,
horniness, or is it horniness, or is it just angst, melancholia,
paranoia, discontent, bitchiness, ticks and lice, Lime Disease,
cancer of the lower bowel, flow, you are already dead, this
is all just extra time, flow with the clouds and the moon,
you've been dead a hundred thousand years, Siva dances
and Kali chomps on bowels, til death us do part a thousand
times, the perfect house on the perfect river, the perfect
porch, perfect hair and face, legs...and still you've been dead
a hundred thousand years.
X.
Then suddenly one Sunday it turns and the undulating
forested, farmed, rivered landscape begins to talk, "We're
back, out here it's not the enemy any more, the enemy is in
there away from us," under the canopies of the resurrecting
trees, the river my love again, "I knew you'd wait for me to
come back," out, out, further into the duck and crow, deer,
squirrel world, the tree-god voices fingering around my legs
and face, as I'm swallowed by the shadowgods, home.
