Monday, December 29, 2008

for Mom and Benny Boy

In Florida We Had Fried Squirrels

I used to take your books and pretend the insides were blank to my
rolled paper and coke.

I remember the etchings of trees and
nails and one page filled.

What is it of daughters that
asks not for a twin? I said
"they asked us to sing"
We all then tried to read in the dark.

She's in. She's here. Somewhere.
Buried under snow perhaps. Waiting
20 minutes somewhere for a plug
a heat made of surrounding.
Have you ever heard of the
Indian Jesus?
The piece of mind.
The slight breathing.

They are now switching off and
nose dripping.
There was an earlier philosopher.
They said there were 50.

Everyone got taken in by the forest,
by the twoness of thought.

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