Why would I carry a piece of dark,
red, cherry wood a long distance,
just to show someone it exists?
I washed up on shore, a calendar of tides,
pushing and rolling me, a message in a body.
No address, no phone, just a sunset sitting
warmly on my tongue. I couldn't quite say it.
Then it set. I slept. I turned. I went down.
Transits shifted. The moon birthed more stars.
The sun rose out of the earth.
The mother and her children scattered.
In the morning those that listened
began quietly dismantling their cars,
in search of life therein.
Now the passageways were just large
directions in the earth,leading to
small concentric circles, congregation.
Electricity stopped. Outlets went dry.
Dark cords of intercourse rested.
We were already moving.
Inventions no longer held necessity.
The history of our objects had no recall.
We discovered the growth and mystery of lawns.
We hesitated all over everything.
The earth turned over. Succulents appeared.
Through half open blinds I saw fruit trees:
Figs, peach, hands of bananas, along the devil strip.
The message got out of the body,
as I had hoped.
Interpretation was rampant,
as it should be.
But not one slant ruffled the earth.
In the late afternoon I peeled a banana.
Why would I carry a piece of dark,
red, cherry wood a long distance,
just to show someone it still exists?
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