Ian Randall Wilson
All night I think
how earth gives up
its bones. A thousand
thousand years and all
that's left. The little nags
my thoughts again
though in a different order.
I spend the hours before bed wearing
glasses that chop the blue—
a better machine for dreaming,
the doctor tells me.
All the bulbs turn
amber and I am miffed
at lights not being lights.
There is sea below my window,
the road a route
to the funeral inside me.
Turns out the songs were right
and everything is dying.
I promised the Beloved
I would end these things
on a positive note,
so here it is:
Trees. Trees.
Beautiful trees.