The Monkey Climbs a Tree
I.
With words come the square, the block
Of sound, time and space
With words, you fill the square
And we bounce you hither and yon
The block of time and space, ex nihilo
Becomes something you see, touch, hear
Smell if you’re advanced
Taste if you leap beyond the possible
II.
An image does more, because it is
The thing in a sense
A copy of the thing at least
But words can never be
The thing itself, the vessel
Or its roiling contents
III.
Words, like music, are embodied dreams
They float until finally seized
By hungry, desperate vagabonds
Cast off from the one true earth
Cast off, ironically, but still alive
Waiting for a dirt-filled muse to lead
Them halfway home
I wish I could make ten
Make ten before I die
Another time
— Douglas Pinson