Sun in the Vines

It makes me think of stone gods
humming to themselves
and marching toward the ocean.
Their songs twirl up
like the curly hairs of vines
on the fire escape, don’t
forget their parents wept
when they were born, and they burned, and their
tears curled too,
and it was the same shape as this,
it was the same shape as the vine.

The human skeleton is a vine
within itself, as are the nerves and the
tendrils of brain activity. Electricity
has proven itself an unpredictable
entity, for its here-and-there
tendencies, I think it is perfect. Fire
it at the world. It’s a
common dance like lightening is, and
what about the playfulness of a snake
twitching at a yard mole, or a cat
flattened at the bird?

Death is curled and it spirals
from our heads to our toes and in
numerous shapes that have never existed
and will not exist,
and furthermore
do not right now.

What are they then? These are the
shapes of the sun and these are the shapes
of thought. If you let them move
they will, but they will not move very quickly
or in any real direction. They will grow and
curl according to their own
whimsy.

I sit on at the window sill
in the sun and I drink my coffee. My cat
hops up and arches her back and
the base of her tail underneath my
hand and my chin. She’s affectionate
but she’s very loose, very loose indeed
in the universe, I realize,
and so am I.