dying by the second
from a starving brain;
each new panicked moment
narrows down the frame.
now, my world is dwindling,
shrinking to a dot:
like TV's used to do
when you shut them off.
Now, this poem is done.
there's nothing past one pel --
except for oblivion:
no sight, no sound, no smell.
Stumps are underwater. The pebble beach is gone. Floating docks slant downstream as fast waters roll on. Detritus on pylons: a beaver dam of wood. Coffee brown waters flow where yesterday I stood. Will the levees stand strong until the surge recedes? Will the flood wash away the willows and the reeds?
When I see some willows - down by water's edge, drooping in the moonlight, or swaying in the breeze - I think of Blackwood's tale of Danube canoers who land upon an isle to camp among the willows. And will the willows that I see, mark wicked ground, and what will they become when darkness makes its stand? It's such a pretty tree... now all but ruined for me, and that is story's power to sweeten or to sour.
For those interested in reading the referenced story:
The Willows by Algernon Blackwood — free at Project Gutenberg
The desert called; its tone silent. It asked me out, and so I went. One patch of dune looked like the rest; so, I couldn't tell which place was best to burn just like a slice of bread stuck in the slot, 'mid burning threads: those glowing wires, exuding heat that burn the head and burn the feet. And so, I marched across the sands in search of more temperate lands, but I never reached such a place and vanished there, without a trace.
a mined gouge in the hilly, green landscape: reclaimed by trees.
gusty city breeze tousles the flowers; the city backdrop blurs.
Something shakes the high grass,
what it is I can't say.
I see flowers tremble,
near a part-line splay.
I hear dry stems rattle
to some darting moves.
But a creature's existence
still remains unproved.
Maybe it's delirium,
or a trick of the wind.
I catch no flash of fur
on which my claim to pin.
Even from the watchtower,
my grounds are circumstantial.
I can't give proof of life --
at least not that's substantial.
to human eyes,
the man-made stands out —
while trees seem the same
the thistle blooms: beautiful for a time, but best known from afar.
spheres of fluff hold strong against a breeze... until they don't.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 