strands and bits of light and warm places;;squirrel squirrel popcorn string;;;poem [river]

we've been looking for lights and warm places on our cold cold around-the-block walks;;;;we've been making paper chains and snowflakes and santas;;;;peter even strung some popcorn for the tree;;;;;squirrel squirrel squirrel squirrel squirrel!











here's a part of a poem, thinking about light and all and happiness:

I am watching me watching me with light showing piles of air layers inside it.

I have been running towards it.

I will hold this ship on my finger
To the right or left I will lean
I will not say anything
I will climb in the boat
We are all there
My mother
My brother
My sister
My younger brother
The midwives in their shadows
The psychopomp in grey finery
The seedlings sprouted in little pots
Myself
This notebook
My baby—now a child
Peter
All of the people who come to love us
The cycles of light, food, air water
The cycles of throwing up if you need to

I will hold this on my finger and enter it.
The form is too much and will be inside it.
Inside it the hypnotist

The language is short like
Nuts.
The language is doors or
Hairs.
The language is eyes in
Piles.

And I meant everything I said to the river
When he challenged me he sprung the light sponge-bits of floating bones to the surface
Here are your father’s bones!
Here is a water spider!
Here is everything made of light!
Here is the shadow across it!

That a river is aware of his body being entered—that a river has a body.
That it had a voice which was thinking of me.
That I could return it and say,
I have to decide where I am speaking from, river.
I have to decide what I am as I write.
I am sewing a tooth on my arm
I am repeating silk and grass, worm and moon, spider and dream. . .

The world bears us.
The world bears me.
It is all day long thinking.
The world wide web the world wide web.
The river is thinking
In fits and starts.
It is throwing stars into its brains and mixing it up at night when it can

I am mapping a river in the river
And it is answering itself
Which could be any number of things.

Which is like me. I had bleating and goat-like tendencies.
Everything is tender and new
I am a meaning of it
And I am in the present
So I can’t talk right now. . .

Why don’t you go outside. To recover
And can we talk? We are broke in her window
The spider walks to shore to show us all. It is not wrong to be gazing on life

I am the decision! I have the answer of who is your friend?

The future inside itself in the movement of my body

Poem poem poem in the river there are my father’s dogs, running.

He is catching these walls of no energy exhaustion
We are playing and being . . .