April 7, 2012

poem 122 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo10)

Pan said to wait
before She came

start writing near
that big tree 
hung with bark 
blossom careen
fanning hangs 
of genitalia
each branch 
a little tree
a diorama 
that sees infinity
in small scale 
growth factors
sky reaching blue 
and a golden rue
that slurries 
the hurried milk
fed Suns of time

the woven 
dimes inside
old telephone booths
wooden glass 
folded fast
past the smell 
of peeling paint
rotary dial
thick rubber cord
seat still warm
worn smooth
with the way
we used to linger
on the phone
we still pine
for the piano wire
and coffee can
in the forest
looking for hands

Pan knows
to cull the land 
of those willing 
to surrender too
and lie in wait
for more 
thirst to pour
open mouthing
kind to sensual rain
languages explain
what ripple tingle skin
and irises widening
at each begin
can bend 
crooked to
the sounds
fingers find
and form letters 
and lines 
in the sand with
each of our ways
back to the garden
back to here

I just
have to listen
and laugh as I
start writing near
that big tree
 fucking the air
 to get inside
more of
 Her gravity


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