“A Tiny Singing Voice Emerges From A Swimming Pool”
[a story, a hypothetical, a paranoia]
When presses of anxious child-feet
push against our insides out
and the trees of our roots are blooming
the blossoms we will hang around our necks
and wear like royal garments
The riggling worms in our grainy history
will tie into grape-vine gift wrap
and you will be uncovered
and taken out of your hide house
and given reluctantly to the future days
of tree climbing and seed sewing
When the stories we have written
all conclude with a preface for a tale
we can neither write,
our graves will be dug and given
the smiles and laughter with which
gods will greet us as we step down
from our recent thrones
We, as the growers of new and carriers of old, do not punctuate our ends or beginnings.
