Wood is not dead
It is a facsimile of itself
Disguised as slices of trees
Living in houses
Or as posts driven into river muck
It is abrupt curtains of reality
Mere shadows of life
It dies when it wants to,
And it wants to
The grass is taller than I am,
In the pasture
Near the river
Where I once stood
Waist-deep in dark water
Barbed wire, a sharp brassiere,
Sliced my chest
And leeches sucked my blood
Now seed heads wash over me,
Dusty and minute,
Settling in my hair and on my arms,
Thin reeds of flesh brush against me
Like uncles and aunts
The world is all around me
The river, its barbed wire and leeches,
is far away
I could die here,
Vanish in the listering
Fragrance of seeds
Finding their way
In their endless quest for survival,
Then again,
I could leave this place,
Travel not so far,
go to the river,
live among the leeches,
And find another painful
Way of living.
A way of living
