Standing Still I Am A Forest

..--..

An adolescent father snaps the chain link swing
while his first born son watches from a crippled
see-saw. The world has tinted itself to the passing
windows of cars. The heard has no home. Electrical
currents never stop and ask directions. It’s a group
the recognizes the face of a monolith, the child is
product of two parallel bodies without margin. Meet.
A man dizzy in the library moves from one book
to another, stacked open at the spine center, trading
the order of book chapters. Nothing moves like plot.
Or a classified section: Life seeking schematic. There’s
a house on hill where young men can find God’s will
in their lives. Perhaps they’ll discover Asche’s lines,
or prop the root system of a forest with shovels used
to excavate them. Perhaps they’ll notice family lines
of trees strangle strange roots of foreign trees whose
seeds, perhaps, hitchhiked a ride in a rodents entrails
dropped by a buzzard through their canopy. How
would they know the difference? Not speaking
to a family is a form of non-violence.

.-.-.-

Found Poem

So much for sovereignty.

A still face
lends life into a mirror, mistakes
itself
for itself. A man, underside of glass
painted black
no light to enter the body.
I, unpresent
dressed naked.

You hinge light
on flesh
rotate shadows from grown angles

pivoted by you,
shown the source of light traced
but unfound

in the mirror.
Me, the lazy self portrait
I paints over.