The trees see me make patterns in the snow
My memory tracks me down
The Moon hears my thoughts;
they shine like Neanderthal camp fires
along the coast lines
The start of day is prepared
The end of day tucks me in
These four walls hold me gently;
the floor greets my feet with trustworthy resistance;
the ceiling leaves some extra space above for haughtiness
The entire human race examples me amply
The atmosphere grows vocal cords and eardrums
Gravity grows muscles
Death grows time and ingenuity
Evolution is a mad dash;
all these languages from a single mutation
The tectonic plates have other plans for patterns
My illnesses clean and fondle my health,
'til it shines and glows
Yesterday is up for grabs;
tomorrow is a set-up
The radios talk in the silence
The directions point everywhere
The wind sleeps in a lull
There's a scarcity reaching for us all
The windows all lack thoughts,
but lean against the wind
My life trickles like moisture
through the moss on an ice age rock
Life's trick is its softness
and lack of eternity,
body by body
The images rush downwind
The birches up north in Scandinavia
stand like Roman legions
The snow softens these rocky slopes,
all but imperceptible shades speaking
for all that's hidden
The ski tracks fan out
at will of the directions
By itself, one occurrence topples the world
Equilibrium craves the other;
lop-sidedness flakes down the abyss
A lone skier across the Antarctica
makes friends with the Sun
It's the 11th of March,
and my penis has a slight abrasion
from intense skiing
The clothes are proof of our nakedness,
but we are all dressed
in the outer reaches of our imagination
It's hard to ride the Beast of Nothingness,
even in upper-case letters
The day remains in bed upstairs
with Monsieur Proust
'til well into the afternoon,
which trots 'round and 'round
out in the yard
Beware of people with funny clothes
and explanations!