April Shrooms

And it leaves occasionally

not the addiction to thoughts

but the ability to make them

intersect through space.



Where am I now?

Staring out at the expanse of sky.

Still dark.

An unknown bird sits on his usual branch.

A little dog next door barks in his sleep

inquiringly, just once.

Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires

once or twice, quavering.

Questions---if that is what they are---

answered directly, simply,

by day itself.



Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;

gray light streaking each bare branch,

each single twig, along one side,

making another tree, of glassy veins...

The bird still sits there.

Now he seems to yawn.