I want to be better than this. If my karma is bad, my poems are bad.
They(ll) have bad faith. I belong here and I have work to do.
Not over there beyond some satirical fence. A fence is what comes after.
After neighbors and walls. After everything.
Always stay before.
Imagine a field ringed with trees on all sides. Poplar and oak.
Common trees, anyone could find them anywhere. Would you be willing
to call this a clearing, a grove, a sunny spot ringed with trees?
It is a temple or bench. A simple bench by a stone outcrop.
Depending on your outlook. Now it is a spot to sit in, a spot to pray.
A safe secure garden can be made out of trees. Ampitheatre, a place for sacrifice.
Some kids can play in them and the trees are just borders. To them
there is a ballpark in the midst. Trees are especially spectators, they can
see the fly balls and the foul outs. They can see the homeruns. The ghostrunners
forced between trees.
Someone builds bathouses in the trees. This is real. I am doing it.
I am building houses for the bats to go on the trees to love them.
Aren’t houses simple, absolutely. Absorbed in themselves, compared to trees
they are effortless mechanics.
On the path where I walk, I like stepping,
I see the four trees and the regular bathouses.
No one should put walls around trees, just go on backing into the dark/see
the brown trees growing out of the earth.