bush
some distance from the depth of the heartwoods
at the place where 3 fences meet
fences whose axes drive off over the edge of the bleak horizon to infinity
yet near
horizons where seeing in the way we learned as many childs
and upon which individual child it became a trial of invention
whose language although in general agreed
is just a statistic
and not the same for each person is variegated
in this feature like the leaves of plants
who within a genus may be
so unsame so alike
well a short journey from the intersection of fences
their juncture being on the edgewood
a bleakwood along whose white path leads you
is a bush so broken its disheveled branches
have brought dishonour to its woods
a bush as if a moon split open
that leftside leaves flailed in the winds of disarray
yet stilled with no form upon the other
as if dark light emanated from its right half
and no image stands behind as in our concept of dimension
not incomplete but devoid of substance
so the bush beside the white path plays its fatal discourse
which it makes upon the subsumed heavens
with rays that sped upward
and with rays that raced downward
and into the very core of spells and dreaming
its long twined roots creep below the path of science
like glass shards reflecting
sent off to infinity the taproot of never odd or even
below the palindrome soil
whose bedrock in our fertile lithe unconscious
is sent with the old cyclic yarns
downlifted through the crusts of earth
upon the voices of our many ancestors
if you climb upon 3 fences and chanced upon the white path
that led you to that bush and asked of it
upon which axis is my future found
its limbs may stir within the countenance of trees and breeze
and its viva voce a shift
a slightly shuffling rustling langor
where light exudes through subtle foliage
whose dictionary is threaded through the many aeons of its life
its whittled ligneous cambium page of current thought
its forgone rays of wisdom past - so little wise
its language doled in listless riffs of leaves
or violent sway conducting boughs
or broken splints
and such a question is of man
lightly heaving as the breath of dogs
that lies in wait panting drooling for its answer
Paris waits for Helen