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To the Trees quick and slick and full of you, the you I don’t want, the you that brims over,brims under my lines, the you I can’t remake,reshape, the you I – just leave it, drop it,walk away.There’s nothing to see here. Go to the trees, I always go to the trees,but let’s go to the tree outside my window, the one standing on its own,away from all the others, the one with the great arms stretching up the one with too many fingers spreading themselves into shapes so the fierce birds might come to them.Too many for what? To be just pointing at the sky, to be just making shapes for the birds? They must be a trace of something, of some hand,some principle urging them on – maybe Maths or God and God knows we don’t want to go down that road do we? Just look at the trees. 8
page 17
I wish I didn’t know any rules,any at all, and then my poems, or this poem at least, would move,would soar,would hover and break into thousands and thousands of pieces of white material. 9

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To the Trees quick and slick and full of you, the you I don’t want, the you that brims over,brims under my lines, the you I can’t remake,reshape, the you I – just leave it, drop it,walk away.There’s nothing to see here. Go to the trees, I always go to the trees,but let’s go to the tree outside my window, the one standing on its own,away from all the others, the one with the great arms stretching up the one with too many fingers spreading themselves into shapes so the fierce birds might come to them.Too many for what? To be just pointing at the sky, to be just making shapes for the birds? They must be a trace of something, of some hand,some principle urging them on – maybe Maths or God and God knows we don’t want to go down that road do we? Just look at the trees.

8

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