Tramping
Over the decaying carcass of a tree
sinking into the ground
and termite infested
We were deciding who was Scully
You told me if I was Mulder
That would not be a good thing
But I don't know
I kind of like Mulder
The eternal truth-seeking waif
Buffeted by tragedy
So often looking like he could
almost smile
Abusing himself in the most
subtle and ingenious ways
Self-starvation
of a different sort
A wasting core
Evident less in the body
More in the soul
More in the twelve-year-old
eyes
of a man who can't answer
his own question
Trying so hard to believe
And coming back empty
THE WHY OF IT
The unhelpful need to know
Wonder if this flayed stump of a thing
rotting into the earth
Could teach him anything
It's so alive with its own death
But you're a skeptic anyway
kicking at the pieces
and seeing them for what they are
so much dead wood
With you it's always time to stop dreaming
But I'm heading down
to the River
To fill my eyes with visions
and maybe
if I'm lucky
find a sapling
---
Trampling the Sapling has been published previously, in Under the
Armchair Magazine
