The dark seems extra dark this morning,
as if the night hung a blanket from the clouds
and built a fort. Did we make forts as kids
to feel wombed again? Probably. And rode bikes
because evolving wings would have taken too long.
Look at that: I'm so good at science, even though
I don't own a beaker. But really really dark,
like every thought the inside of a sock has ever had,
like the anatomy of rocks, like being buried
without a candle. I saw these cowboys once
trying to lasso a huge oak. I believe they were drunk.
I know I was. Finally they got a rope around the tree
but still couldn't break it, it was wild
and remained wild until seven axes told it one day,
Your time is up. Seven axes, seven men. Fourteen arms.
Fourteen testicles. Swinging and swinging. The arms.
The testicles. Someone yelled timber and the canyon
whispered it back. Softer. Like a promise
of things to come. Dark as the inside of a testicle
full of wriggling, frenetic sperm. Life is bold,
safety pins are not. Which would you rather be:
on fire, or fire? Exactly. An acorn
in the dark grip of the earth, taking hold.

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