Clouds and Trees

"Nothing ever goes away enough or arrives enough,/ and I want to cry when I think of my heart,/ muscle pounding in muscle, greedy always for joy." – 'A Warning', Eric Anderson

Month: July, 2011

Mixed Drinks

You are a whiter shade of gray
than you used to be.
I wonder if we sat on the banks of a cloud
and dipped long, thin pipes
into the fog,
tipped them up
so the droplets would run down,
unknowing ice
into us,
that would be enough
for you to get pure.




He had wet his hand before he touched the trout, so he would not disturb the delicate mucus that covered him. If a trout was touched with a dry hand, a white fungus attacked the unprotected spot. Years before when he had fished crowded streams, with fly fishermen ahead of him and behind him, Nick had again and again come on dead trout, furry with white fungus, drifted against a rock, or floating belly up in some pool.

-The Big Two Hearted River Part II – Ernest Hemingway

He wanted clouds to fall into–
Nothing you can touch is perfect.

His trout drifting in the gorge,
Bright throat, cobweb spots,

White moss, gills and fingerprints,
The self– deadly net, canvas bag.

To escape traitor skin, to mold.
Death, this unnatural death.