plums and a discarded knife

full moon, plums and clouds
dull knife in tall grass
juice dripping from lips.

play

toys dance on the stage,
jumping and jerking,
twisting to the yank and troll of
children.
to stop here is to fall short (a million
li) and land on my ass,
but i say it anyway for
effect.

momma calls and the kids run in,
their dolls dressed for tea
left on pause mid-sip, foppish
hat dangling precariously,
mr. fuzzy gazing limply into the sky.

and yet the table that is not really a table
still sings some table-song and the tea pot
that is not really a tea pot squints at
the make-pretend sugar bowl (containing
real sugar stolen from the cupboard) with
a look that says, “don't
you go sweetening my sobriety, goddamned
you.” of course,
this is all still just imaginary.

play resumes, only this time miss. buggles
is a super-frog, come to the rescue of helpless sugar
cubes.
licking them, they are not so much set free
as they are set
adrift.

question

falling-tree, the young ojibwe, kayaks
down the mississippi towards the great water.
wider and wider grows the river until
thick fog obscures the banks.

he could turn for shore on either side, following
the calls of lands creatures,
but laughing waves draw him further.

when he reaches the ocean, he asks a question
and rolls his kayak over,

sinking