I have been under the trees. Before that I reheated yesterday's stew. With a friend, there was a mention again of that plane that vanished. I am deciding that vanish is an indrawn breath. Inside what body is that plane now and can you tell me what the ceiling is made of there. I'd like to know the landscape of such a place. Now, I've had more wine, more trees. I've remembered something my father once taught me about women and men a long time ago. It was a hard and amaranthine lesson about respect and friendship and despair, and he did not intend to teach it. I exhaled the memory, watched it rise into a heartbreak of contrails that broke the amaranthine sky.
That Crazed Girl
That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea'