The Clearing That Is The Trees

"They know they are going to the filth of numbers and laws,         to the games anyone can play, and the work without fruit."         Lorca         I want to go walking in troubled marshes         where cold gray coves leave off the mind         and the scent of rushes twist the wind         as fall covers dungeons of angry sparrows.         I want to go quickly to troubled marshes,         hear the squeak of brackish waters         over crocks of sponge bubbles crabbing         their surface.         I desire stands of dead brush         to wave in grave solemnity,         whimpering little houses         off forest glades to flicker         out lamps with         large dogs poised on verandahs         like stone gargoyles.         I want to handle anguish as if         it were an interesting bauble         plucked from the shallows,         a curious snail with ritual markings         or a mauve shellfish         caught in swift eddies         as the tide goes out.         I want to examine canker introspection         as a peevish child might         faint tracings on an old stone         lodged in the most forgotten         corner of a graveyard;         sample its wonders         fingering the many indentations         with more than slight awe         or hear the crashing of waves         far off from the physical restraint         of the marsh or this forgotten         burial plot so near an angry sea.         Then, awaken as if from a dream,         rub troubled memories from my eyes         but never the brain         for on winter nights just before         retiring as the wind stirs packets         of snow or the moon is chased         by skeletal hounds along Gretal trees,         there will come the realization         another day is thru         with another night to pilot away         fresh brush & rubble         before emerging, at night's end,         from the clearing that is         the trees.