I think I would like to be
part of a trunk
that extends back to three or four years ago,
or a distant past that I will
partly connect with
the next tree over,
the shingle on a dilapitated roof,
somewhere on a coastline
that I’ve never walked on.
a man in a long grey overcoat
will extend his fingery hand
to hold me,
and I am met alongside a book with an unhinged spine,
floppy like the ears of a soft dog,
and grey green like moss in winter.
He has no smile,
but his eyes betray lost happiness.
There is a wilderness behind him,
but he has only ever known the ocean.
I tell him
to go back to the treeline
instead of the foam that he so adores,
but only single syllables can
exit his mouth:
The name of the sea is petunia,
and he spells this out with me on the sand,
but says “pet”,
and so we play with her like a dog;
flickering her wave tails and trying to catch her as she grabs me,
fetches us back conches and seaweeds.
I did not dissolve again
into the tree,
but I wanted to so much.
so would the day,
and he wasn’t complaining.
Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry