The rich students in their infantries
crawling, wading in between trees.
Half of the crowd is digesting light bulbs
and the other half is downing helium,
coughing up lights and stray flashes
and hiccuping at a high G above G flat.
I’m currently at the edge of the forest
with my lover
touching the string of light bulbs
that hangs through the leaves
and unscrewing the sockets
feeling the sting and the burn that breathes.
I realize that
I’m not even a child!
I am the product of a small embryo
that was formerly a fistful of green wadded bills:
what else could i possibly be?
in this forest full of strings and lights and crowds
we found the unexpected windfall
of littered cash on the forest reserve street the next morning.
The rich students line up by the roadside, and
lights bleed from they’re tentatively strewn hands
to catch it.
x x x
in another place:
a lone girl on the hillside starts feeling her eyes
(I just want to soothe her like a mother with a quivering whisper
and shaking hands that reach out to hold
this beautiful pale fragility)
Do not squirm, I say,
the money was left by the roadside
(she knows, and she feels her eyes once more,
checking to see if she can still see)
She knows the greenbacks have been run over by horses
and that might mean a starting over…
it’s just that-
the hill covering her house
is only a flat shape of an unreal childhood
she was soon to forget.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry