4.11.09
(Quite old, and about Charles. His nickname had to do with monkeys.)
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On this precious little limb,
Trying to touch the foundation of this whim,
To see things flipped—turned down,
To look around at everything, a sky of ground.
I’m kneeling on the heavens,
On the clouds I’m treading.
Arms stretched up low,
To touch the Earth below,
My fingers scraping at the dirty vault of sky,
Watching the swirls of shimmering dust fly.
And it’s when the blood is rushing to my brain,
My equilibrium all array,
Tingles spreading from toes to fingertips,
My face turning the red of tulips,
That I begin to see,
My best friend’s reason for hanging from trees.
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