Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Backlooking so many
Backlooking so many roselikes. Nearopen lily-hands slowly, slowly, a season for every thing. Then more like flytrap manythorned head like horn ramming ramming out my bellytop. Grandmother said swallow black (white all right) seed and get! ready! thick green skin blowing like basketball ball out supplesoft goosedowny belly, leaves in lungs, spreading inescapable drowning in dry vines: just. Like. That. (Snap!) Backlooking so many roselikes, littlethorned, bristlebrush calligraphic tips making their loopy beautymarks all throughout inside me. Pupils still learning the outside, can’t know what form whose face these flowers drew. Tall Gardener standing bleeding too in pruning shear position, so certain, so. Tall. Little me running round unready asking asking tugging and hiding at once everything in little squeaks asking what to do meaning Can I? What I want. Exactly. Tall Gardener eying so curiously me he had been, still is, turned toward me turned toward lines and lines of garbled. All hungryrush handthoughts grabbing turn peace in the presence of Him, pruningshears handheld and holy.