Poetry/Art

The Dream

Henri Rousseau

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Jungle

Robert Kelly

The green that grows from me depletes my soil,
is not variety, does not mulch down
a complement of intimate support. Growth
stands between me & the sun, the branches
repeat endlessly the same ideas, the same form.
Rain comes through, I get the leach of it
colored by monotonous unstable leaves.
I thought these feelings into place & now
feelings have no place to thing their own.
The tree trunk is will, skeleton of earlier design
that leaves no room for breath or search or care.
A jungle has not heart. The core of it is to be more.

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