~ Kevin McFadden - Beech For a tree, youre the worst kind of friend, remembering everything. Pale-skinned, slightly brailled, blank page of pre-adolescence. The way the smallest knife-slice would darken with time, rise and widen. Mark was here. Left his. But these are the digs youre used to, sufferer of mere presence, scratched years, scratched loves we wanted to write on the world and couldnt trust to an eardrum. (I scarred you myself long ago with my own jack-knife, jill-name. You took her as the morning unsteamed around me. Took us as we had to be taken, in.) Old relief, new reminder, I was young, what could I have written? Didnt care then, had to see it scraped out, big letters beneath your erotic nubs and crotches. O beech, its no big riddle: we fell in the forest, you heard. Quiet, in your own way. In your own way, spreading the word.
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 11:57:00 +0000
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