untitled 7

thus i return to writing
my pen poluting existence as it has a thousand
times before
still floating face down in a wading pool.
trying to grab air where there is
water.
i think my feet are asleep
i cannot stand
my hands are busy
with other things
some things i can't explain
i hear a banjo alone in an
orchestra
thats playing in my head
as i stare out over the trees
that frown upon what i have been and what will
be
i think my grandfather does too
he would be a redwood
if he was like them

i see the trees sway in a wind
that must be above me
i'd like a tree to climb