I am a they in most of America. Someone feels lost in the forest Of we, so he can’t imagine A single tree. He can’t bear it. A cross. A crucifixion. Such A Christian. All that wood Headed his way in the fact Of a man or a woman who Might as well be a secret, so Serious his need to see inside. To cut down. To tell. How Old will I get to be in a nation That believes we can grow out Of a grave? Can reach. Climb High as the First State Bank. Take a bullet. Break through Concrete. The sidewalk. The street someone crosses When he sees wilderness where He wanted his city. His cross- Tie. His telephone pole. Timber. Timbre. It’s an awful Sound, and people pay to hear It. People say bad things about Me, though they don’t know My name. I have a name. A stake. I settle. Dig. Die. Go underground. Tunnel The ocean floor. Root. Shoot Up like a thought someone Planted. Someone planted An idea of me. A lie. A lawn Jockey. The myth of a wooded Hamlet in America, a thicket, Hell, a patch of sunlit grass Where any one of us bursts into One someone as whole as we.
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