.
I saw a little fish broken in a tree
like a stone, like a stoneShe was taller than a daydream
more purple than the wind
I ignored the pillow's tea-cup
and the un-green soup
I climbed into her whiskers
and made my violent bed there
There was a great clanging of soup-bowls
like a mountain
leaning on one elbow
& the soil turned deep red
& not one bird flew there
she was taller than a daydream
more purple than the wind
.
1 comment:
This is a thoroughly enchanting piece of writing. I like the way its abrupt machinery registers marvels of metamorphic glee. The image of "a little fish broken in a tree" is both preposterous and sad, like a raft, or peacock. It is a nice upper-cut to reality. It is, in fact, a sur-reality. Reality is not a bowl of sauerkraut; reality is a fugitive discoloration at the edge of an imponderable goose bump. A chill. A thrill. The excitement one finds at an open market, bins and cases of shaved ice and fish. There is no gaze so penetrating or eloquent as that in the eyeball of a dead fish. Except maybe a mountain leaning on one elbow. A toothpick the size of the space needle in its mouth. And a purple wind blowing green and orange into the lavender forest on the forehead of a zip code.
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