oh i searched
for that one lane that lead me through
the connected boughs above the sod
where the setting sun shone in between the trunks
the patriarch at its tip
i turned frustrated toward the triangle
that one remote turn-around point
to return home to a tune jangly
remorseful
that more time wasnt spent in awe
of all the places that have yet to be seen
remorseful
of the places below the rising moon
yet too be seen
of the places where puke has not yet been spewed
scrawling poetry on the back
of a dusty trunk
alone only with the spirit of her
laughing and chastising
this can only become more respectable
more
more
constructive
and wheels meander
and gears shift
until
im beneath a willow
long dead
cartwheel in
flop down
eyes closed
and dream