The mountain was wearing clouds like a
shawl,
and the trees listened to her singing, rapt–
and the trees listened to her singing, rapt–
did I really witness this, or was it a
dream
I saw somewhere, that hooked into me and dragged
I saw somewhere, that hooked into me and dragged
along picking up its own detritus like
a busboy? Have I lived my life
a busboy? Have I lived my life
or built it out of half-remembered
commercials,
snatches of songs, found furniture abandoned
snatches of songs, found furniture abandoned
on the street, cardboard, or interesting
twigs?
It lumbers and roots around; is it looking for
It lumbers and roots around; is it looking for
something to hold in its hand, like a
cane?
I don’t know. Remember, I’m talking about my life,
I don’t know. Remember, I’m talking about my life,
not a troll or a metaphor. My life
is a mountain of garbage walking around
is a mountain of garbage walking around
and upsetting other piles, strewing them
everywhere, not even stopping to look
everywhere, not even stopping to look
for proverbial treasures before wandering
off,
head ringed by clouds, singing to itself.
head ringed by clouds, singing to itself.