I could tell you what I’m not
a wizened tree at the edge of an untended field
branches extended like twisted arthritic fingers
just over the rusted barbed wire fence
that marks where someone tried to farm
a rotting boat half submerged in the swamp
planks slowly giving way to slimy years
on a bank sticky with gumbo clay
unnoticed by nutria on their nocturnal climb
I would be lying of course
I have been each of these in the past
even now they live in my bones my skin
if you were to close your eyes and remember
you would find they dwell in you
and when you stare unguarded into the mirror
gaze upwards into the clear night sky
look into the white of winter snow
you see my eyes the leaves the wooden mast
briefly all boundaries dissolve
into rainbow laughter that shimmers the all
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