Unliking the hippos

October 30, 2009 at 6:42 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 19 Comments
Tags: poetry, writing

The trees were aggregations of uncertain light, shade and air transpired from leaves to drift across the plains, congregations, and composed has three meanings. Beneath this tree I am composed.

I do not like the hippos, she says, peeling a mandarin. They are as though the earth spites itself. If you were wise as this fruit you would reshape the world and remove these unnecessary prepositions and conjunctions.

The natives, those not in exile in other words, are unbuilding the church. The walls are neatly stacked timber, the space once framed by windows has escaped into the sky. Occasionally they look over at us and laugh.

I am tired. If wishes were kisses she says taking my hand and indian cowboys rode tigers at night. In the evening the plane will appear on the horizon and then it will be said that all airs once composed have now transpired.