it is the sun
it is the sun scraping against these trees
that gives birth to sorrow in us, fecund
football, the womb wherein meanings
grow sullen obligations, foeti
with razor teeth to gnaw through the meat
that spells love in us a minute,
for meanings that forget us fall like light
through cities where trees have been,
and rooms now lie empty
where toads have dreamed
beneath the trees, once
before brick was, there where
they remembered the spawning
that threw them together
words for nothing, from nothing,
words that remember them
and the trees that mourned -
it is the sun scraping against these trees
or the toad in me, just leafy dreams
David McLean