| Misunderstood
|
| And disillusioned
|
| I go on describing this place
|
| And the way it feels to live and die
|
| The «natural world»
|
| And whatever else it’s called
|
| I drive in and out of town
|
| Seeing no edge, breathing sky
|
| And it’s hard to describe
|
| Without seeming absurd
|
| I know there’s no other world:
|
| Mountains and websites
|
| Dark smoke fills the air
|
| Some from the fire in my house
|
| Some from me driving around
|
| I could see the lights of town
|
| Through the trees on the ridge
|
| On my way home in the dark
|
| I meant all my songs
|
| Not as a picture of the woods
|
| But just to remind myself
|
| That I briefly live
|
| The gleaming stone
|
| The moon in the sky at noon
|
| There is no other world
|
| And there has never been
|
| I still walk: living, sleeping
|
| Life in the real world of clouds
|
| Clawing for meaning
|
| Still when I see branches in the wind
|
| The tumultuous place where I live
|
| Calls out revealing
|
| «Can you see the river in the branches
|
| And know that it means you will die
|
| And that pieces are churning?»
|
| «Can you find a wildness in your body
|
| And walk through the store after work
|
| Holding it high?»
|
| I’ve held aloft some delusions
|
| From now on I will be perfectly clear:
|
| There’s no part of the world more meaningful
|
| And raw impermanence echoes in the sky
|
| There is either no end
|
| Or constant simultaneous end and beginning
|
| A pile of trash
|
| The fog on the hill
|
| Standing in the parking lot, squinting |