What You Have

Been a while for tumbling, been a while for old sleeping, been a feeling game, a dying in water bang, a lying in hands. You cannot do it, you save yourself again and again, but you cannot save you. You close your eyes for something and something goes away; it happens and it happens that it happens.  You’re built for this, built to stick the pin back in, built to draw the knife across the animal, built to be courageous and built to share a breath, perfectly built to see the sun and wander. Something round enters the field, a vagary, pinch of silt in the derelict river.

The oracular trees. The bursting. The shoes you took far into the forest on your growing feet. The elevating.

An x writes this, writes itself as a letter and seeks yet more variables. The seeking out of things, the fielding and the shaggy grammatical Huns. Gathering in circles, the forest sees you with your attitude shifting all the time: it knows your conscience, deems it silly. You don’t blush, in your souciance.

Go.  You have sore words.