Seven small trees
Seven seagulls dripping
from the thunder up above
disappearing into the swell
and vanishing from thought
I’m holding both sides of this little boat
as I cry
its wood is trying
to keep its true character
so wet it weeps
convincing me that we are all the same
this wood the salt and air
soon never to surface
Try not to read on
through these waves
the sun is above and below
just try and change the channel
This boat is now made of stars
dismantled and arrange to support me
and my new home
I have been given seven small trees
to start a life in this sand and sun
I have nothing to feed them
besides decades of analysis and conversation
that never really took root
