Homing

You’re thinking about nausea, but you
need to be thinking about Spanish moss

How does that make you feel?
Are you nature’s articulation, or a
knot on a woody branch?
Rain dabbles pond in concentric circles.

You’re trying to write a poem. You’re trying to
run on concrete until your feet bleed.
You’re rubbing your
fists against a tree, reassuring in a hushed tone,
‘I am awake! I am awake.’
You wonder who the second person is.

Experience loses the harmless look of
abstract category: it is the very
paste of things, a root is
kneaded into existence. The
root, park gate, bench, the sparse grass, all that has
vanished: the diversity of things, their
individuality, are only an appearance, a
veneer. The veneer is
melting, leaving soft monstrous masses all in disorder
naked in a frightful, obscene nakedness.

Gulls erupt the line between trees and sky;
I home a flock of laughter.