Spring Fever

Somewhere between starvation

And capillary action,

There is a time where trees

Become themselves: 

Pure child sensation

In their self-mirrors, 

Bursting thought prisons

High in view of geologic tidal storms, floodplain swamp levelings,

Spelunking crystal cave collapses.  

No longer the thought word of

T-R-E-E

But A blissed union

Of the platonic and the ideal 

That blooms

Reticular

Petechial pinpoints 

From cheek-ridge 

To scalp line.

The belly, diaphragm and pelvis 

Hollowed like a young gourd 

Content with being empty 

But hung above with lights to view

Firm skin turned to shriveling 

Amongst so much watching jubilee 

Below 

A pregnant pause at the time 

Of oxygen starvation—

Reduced to the Pleistocene,

Reduced to the compass-less 

Swimming. 

Reduced to the salt.

A line must be drawn in the sand.

Scooped out,

The fear of the Meeting sets.

They are never to meet:

The deities of spring and fall,

The budding watching the dying,

The dying watching the budding

And advising.

The spells must be followed 

To a “T.”

Draw a circle of salt around

The Meeting.

The worlds must be kept separate.

But a fated messenger,

A Doomed Bridger 

Has seen a Gap 

In the Tapestry 

and thinks to fill the chink

With a different color 

Of thread

A ne’er before-seen color 

That can’t communicate 

Through cathodes and diodes, 

Or cationic and anionic

Dances—

No, the Doomed Bridger seeks 

To draw out the map,

To plot out the graph,

To be the improbable remainder,

Moving between Tangent and Sign.