You’ve gone a luminous blind.
Your paper street is full of potholes.
You hide your meaning behind a ruffled parasol.
Aye, we’re in the forest of misconceptions,
And though I guide you to the nearest black
Berry bush, and though you are sustained,
The sunlight is hid from us by a stand of dizzy-high conifers;
That, and the words we speak have no echo here.
I’m not even the gruff waitress I used to be, how can I help you?
Replaced by, You know where the coffee pot is.
This time, I pretend not to notice
I’ve become deaf without a language in my hands
You intimate that blackberry plants can’t grow in a pine forest.
Gods around us,
In every fern’s shadow showing us that everything is either sense
Or motley green beyond comprehension.
You explain yourself for about an hour
While we walk. Yet I escape your jagged ideology or maybe
I’ve escaped something more helpless:
What we call misfired synapses but actually mean,
Something chemical rather than free will,
Showing itself for a series of selfish decisions
And must desist or damn us both
The sideways way I speak with you, dressage instead of western
Words: at least you stay interested in the intricacy. However,
It’s no use pretending I’ve gotten either of us to the door
Of a friendly apartment, in a city where there’s streetlights on
Every hour of the night, to the buzzer
Where a door will click, where we let ourselves in,
Where we can get a glass of water
Or sit down in a chair. We walk all night instead. Finally,
I take off my coat and lay it down
On the earth. The dark and our tension avoiding pain
are unbearable, so we stop.
I mark where we are when there’s enough light.
The start of this map is today.