I'm trying to tell you
about the life I spent
on the white elm
pin oak hill,
& about all
the manifold
pains there:
a child's mouth
******* tight
from the inside;
& from the outside,
nailed shut.
A death's place,
a Luxor or Karnak -
where the gods
were stony,
& answered
no prayers,
& where
I segregated
my emotions
into neat,
sealed containers,
for some
later life
to come.

Oh, it wasn't
all terrible:
I learned to
drink young,
& the yellow
night was full
of the river
at high water
mark, and I
looked at the stars
through the
bottoms
of bottles.
I found Jesus
at the side
of the road
& drank
through him too.
The blue light
of morning
came day
after day -
why should
it ever end? -
over the
funereal pin oak
& the sad-winged elm
& the tomb-moss
that settled
over my mouth
& my name.

The sun was
merely a function,
& days just
happened to me
& every bad break
confirmed me
as less than
the barest
crooked twig
broken in the yard.

It took years
to turn that back,
to spit away
the wavering blood
that filled my mouth.
It took longer still
to walk out
into my memory
of the green
light night yard
& recover that twig.
That's what
I'm trying to tell you.