If you go north, it will get worse.
Valleys won’t aid you.
The sun always goes down.
If you go west, you’ll stumble.
All that reticence is fooling your shoes.
The moon hides in trenches.
If you go south, you’ll drown, eventually.
You’ll swell, you’ll swivel, then flail
and capsize. It’s always stormy.
If you go east, you’ll survive.
But scarcely. There’s no food.
The greens are dying, substances
rise and cover up the sky.

What if you stay here?
The hedge is full, the air blooms.
We’re shot with care and perfume
of bare living, as roses rustle
parrots mass in yonder.
I could take your arm, nothing
banishes sorrow but that’s no matter.
How root lives with skin
is the argument. There’s always more
where apricots fall and lemons are flush
when you can almost believe, though
that’s not enough.

It’s what is more certain like a sun
like a phase, like a trice, a sudden brush
of direction. To dream of escape is
to form up the real and open your eyes
as if it was—again—morning.