talk about the trees
the rise and fall of
tides and season the
living dying so i
don't have to talk about my
living dying -
alive old wounds that
seethe in the quiet
background and over
my fingers over now
scabrous to realise -
i talk about the seasons
rising falling
from roots deep down from
reason in unreason to
moon and stars to
sense in unsensing
the central contradiction in
my part - my part
the only language my
fevrous speaking
to touch without touching
the healing being -
my part
the way it was
and the way
it has to be