Under the Cover of Parachute

To be understood is all.

Then I talk in Mary-Go-Round, circle cud

they never quit out of appreciation.

In calendar's sixth quilt pocket, breathe as I would;

--Half moon pose as I should--

(Instead of glare in dark and tear at skin-- count sheep if I could)

I blend in with big wave liberation.

Simple as life on farm chopping wood.

Simple like duck call memorization.

--buzzing, humming, innocent old bassoon ghost--

Safe in strong arms of gaggle who fought for it.

But in opposite comfortable arms too,

of opposing contemplation.

--

--But then--

fresh out of the socket,

get what I want,

to explain,

then but always lost in translation,

for I am always the same

(sap) .

Always alone at the bell tower station,

always tucked loose at the seams,

so carelessly

we run under the parachute in waking,

scramble around underneath.

Continuing egg through summer, now nothing is patient--

boiling red up on the roof. Waiting.

Then I'm spat out, given (the choice) to be unseen.

Then I'm spat out, belonging to only a nation.