I have a memory

of a juicy plum

but I can’t remember

if I liked it

or if it was just

a refreshing idea

on an oppressive day.

I’m a giant burl

a fungus

spun into a lumpy shape,

a coil of sadness/excitement and trepidation

about a tomorrow

where all the wood is expected

to fall in with the rest of time.

I don’t know how the ocean

will receive me.

I want to learn a floating song

that allows my limbs to fall

open and smoothly

on the summer breeze.

There are hills

without frames

nearby;

they bloom

with a painful green,

rain running over

dead things

and seeds

I can taste

when I breathe.

When the breeze ruffled my hair,

it spoke and asked where

my pages were and would I

repair my wounds;

I wondered if air

was free to choose

or was it arbitrarily shot into

delicate openings like

flowering plants and brains awaiting

the correct sloshing of chemicals

so that the air, if from someplace

lovely like a garden, would cause poetry,

and toxic air from war zones would inflict

grave injury like cynicism or apathy.

It was the quiet

while we ate eggs

that made me feel

immortality is

possible and that

fear is a construct.