some spiders
have been trying to bind
a tree together with a
‘no parking’ sign
and adjusting for size
and strength
I don’t think that I’ve
ever been that ambitious.
even though I want nothing more
some days
than to be the cities you visit
and lose yourself in
and find yourself in
just so I could spend more time with you
it seems a bit ambitous
doesn’t it?
a bit romantic.
to want to be a city
a whole city
full of spiders and trees
and I wonder if the tree knows it’s been bound to a sign
if the sign can feel the tree
trees are inherently,
unavoidably
parked
after-all
even as they move
ring by ring by
root by root
into the air
into the earth
and my wisdom about you
feels like impotence
helplessness
uselessness
failure
until I realize
if I’m feeling impotent
in possession of wisdom
that I cannot possibly
be as wise
as I think
not about you
not about anything
and then I see a robin try
to stretch the life
out of a worm
the worm’s only defences
are the rich,
dense,
wet
brown-blackness
of the earth
and its elasticity
its literally giving nature
it’s a kind of flexibility
likely unknown to ‘no parking’ signs
unless they are bound to
trees growing slowly into earth and air
or have been smashed into by cars
or slowly eroded by air
by rain
until their metal posts bend
and their paint peels
amidst a bloody sunset of
rusting edges and spots
blooming
through the
red, white, and black
of the signified
embargo
on vehicular stillness
a city embargo
that says: “you cannot stop here”
and I am embargoed from
being a city
so I make a list
in my mind
of all the things
that are mistaken for love
like history
and property
and guilt
and power
to make myself feel better
about maybe knowing something
but I know
I’m still
stupid
I can’t help it
I know that love is the binding fabric of the universe
the possible glue of galaxies
the vagrant and only vaguely understood matter
that lives between all the things
we tend to think matter
the cobweb
between the tree
and the no parking sign
so maybe I’m not as stupid as I think
but I probably am
in my giving
and my grieving
of the things to which I am bound
the things that matter
the places I’m not allowed to go
the cities I’m not allowed to be
