Chaos Theory
Kim Triedman

Come this way.

The tree out my window is bare now
then full of leaves; many things, actually, and
the sky likewise changes. Just now there is the
threat of white.

Sometimes:
no birds.

I have been here forever, really—
watching, waiting with a thirst. It may
not seem like much but you will see:
the stories are infinite, like the light, and
when I crane my neck a little to the left
the sun is either bleeding or its not.
Today the road is veined with salt,
but once a moon stared back at me,
blank and unforgiving.

Sometimes there are tears, but there are
copper pennies, too, and glasses of milk;
mothers with no teeth. Paths
abound: citrine, the smell of limes;
kudzu dark and pulpy and heavy as loss.
I have seen a Muslim woman walking
in the wind, her burka like a flying shroud,
and then the sky above her head
go black with beating birds.

Come this way. I will try to protect you.
I have watched men starve along the way,
half lost, and then devour themselves
like serpents. You will see.
The light this way may be too harsh;
the noise of endless wars. Colors—
mutinous. There are no walls, only space
and then more space—
timeless;
perpetual.

Even on a bad day I will feel you
breathe. It may be quiet. It may be
quiet; only limes.

Come this way.


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