You're blocked;
you're bugged;
your eyes stay screaming
but I can't hear a thing.
Wash through me like knees through mud
not yet caked over by the heat of the
sun; like you're looking for something
you dropped and it may soon be entombed.
Look at me as you would a tree
caked in mud.
Name me by my leaves, or
my sinewy limbs.
You're soft;
you're coarse;
the lines that puzzle your face
make frowning silly, and small.
Name me Steinway like the
piano. Or Pecan, like the
tree.
Find me forward, trudging through mud.
I can see solid ground but my branches
can't reach to touch the grass or its flowers
or to smell the rotten-ripe crushed leaves of
the pecan trees.
Stick me where I'm stuck,
save the mud. Give my leaves
some snow, some lightness,
cold. Give me color. Paint me
in storm clouds.
Written while listening to Deafheaven's Sunbather.
