when tools for reading become tools for writing...

as if
milk really came
from the farm.

as if
there were a stop sign
at the top
of the hill,

where the coat
was wet
and its colors ran
down...

"jump like a little fire,
onto the black colored
ground".

a spark
came down
the hill,
to rest upon
the trunk
of this tree.
burning a mark upon the area
which would eventually
be chopped down
to make a door.

a saw then cut, while a hen did cluck
on the top of a big fence
as if
to give the tree
one last wish
to remain a tree,
in spite of things.



i move
from soon
to where
the nest
holds a girl
at rest,
cold from wind
that's fast.

at three
in the morn
those leaves
rustle for ear
and eye,
and i thank them
for they are old,
unable to fly
as they did when the wind
would call
and they would see
who would fall
and land
on their feet -
upon his hair
or both his shoulders -
as dust is most likely
to do,
while we too
have the need
to rest.



i have not a car,
but a bed -
and all but she
sleeps
in a box, instead
as you come
to me
like a fish
looking for lost eggs.

you said
they were those small ones,
that are usually red
and i stood there
silently,
upon one leg -
a man at play
who wants to go,
yet is
still,
always.



indeed,
i can get a pig
to eat corn,
in fact
some for him
and some for me.

it's good to share here
near the dog
and the boy -
as we
can all bear each other
and we
are toys that run,
and move
only for the sun -
which drops light upon
the cap
of the mountain.

then he, the pig,
tires of the light
wishing only
to be done
with it.