it’s the bradford pears.
i just know it is–those stinking
like clammy pigs or rotten eggs
trees that dot our campus with white.
my stomach is turning:
lack of food love plans sleep drive time…
they are throwing a baseball,
i am to my next commitment.
is leisure such a sin a decrier of evil?
my next paper has barely emerged
and it’s due next week doomsday
but i’m not worried about words so
much more anxious about her and our worlds.
this is working in–what does that imply?
that i can finally allow my heart to move my legs
and hands and eyes as i fall from the small hill i’ve attained?
shouldn’t Christ be lifting me up? or did i do all this on my own?
no one righteous. nothing good.
and so i see where i’d be.
and it doesn’t scare me.
and that scares me.
and i think it’s the bradford pears.
they stink and cloud my mind.
letourneau is chillin on the steps.
what kind of character? what’s the good of intellect?
and i think i’m dying
a slow bradford pear-ed death.
please place them on my grave
and walk away holding your nose.
higher.
still higher.
