The Ghosts of Jay MillAr Read Free

upper branches during the long hot summers that as we waited for winter we would fall apart. We would sleep so hard, like rocks or ice, just to cover up the scent of our bondage. What leaves we have shed in the months of our offering. To each other and ourselves. I was a hawthorn and you were a willow. One or two of our beasts will float forever upon their thrones like downy pebbles; we let them have their stay, in the end we give them such defeat. We only know these gifts. Beethoven would have been proud. Of course we were living together, and all in love. All summer I enjoyed listening to the clacking of your leaves and I have fought against each day from that perspective. I was a downy serviceberry and you were a sumac. In autumn, why do we always fall for ourselves? There is something entirely justified and hopeless about our situation. Love would have been proud. Living like cradles poking into the sky, always giving up gently at the last possible second. I was a hickory and you were an evergreen. We have all been offered such riches. But that is what I love about you. So much like myself. So hopeless, full of curiosity about this language we stick into each other as we die of love and hope. Living in the fallout of winter. I was a magnolia and you were a slippery elm. Sometimes there could be miles and miles of us, all holding hands, pierced through the many hearts of the rain. Holding each creature inside us like this soft wood pulp. Satie would have been proud. All of us alone together and unnoticed. Our own path is no less than where we let ourselves fall. Often it is how we wonder why we do this. I was a white cedar and you were a dogwood. No reason, no worry, listen to the last songbirds of summer sing our way.
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    LeafSong
    Because the two sides of our love, invisible, opaque
    we will always love We will never We love you… O
    what love
    We always love. Use us accordingly O seasonal beasts, for
    we shall be our ghosts until we return filled with green.
    We remember with winter space we never leave.
    Make love to air and fall away what we are
    Small beings in love with you
    O ground, love you and shall wait for you
    always over here, on our side, alive living with you O air,
    we are will be the wind one more time waiting in the wind
    in the wind the birth of the wind… many shapes of wind and home.
    Through the burning hot days of summer which is the fruit of our lust.
    Waiting where we are we are for what we come with us
    where we know we are. Here we are wet, here we are green
    awaiting your solid kisses O ground, slide through us
    as we melt into All summer long in the air,
    the hot wind our shape flows through us with motion our soft
    limitations. Lead grace to the slow orgasm of the tree
    when we turn to the light birds ourselves.
    What advice might we give We become
    our red shapes
    for such to kiss, kiss our yellow shapes, kiss our brown gold shapes.
    As we become ghosts never disappear. We long to with you,
    O ground, for you fall through us. For we know who
    we will always be here in love with you O air,
    even in the lust our absence,
    When we make love to ground. O ground,
    all summer long, we are in love with you,
    waiting for return.
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    4 Leaves (4 pages)
    when the wind is all around so
    stoned i couldn’t possibly move, ( BUT I DO )
    What intellect could be out here in the open
    bug-eyed, sapped out of my mind.
    might as well be on a bicycle, turn over and
    over myself, move along without trying,
    out here the ups and downs are accompanied
    by hills that meet the dark edges of the air
    where we will slice at what creates hanging
    on, and i bite my nails to rid them of a dance
    they will always choose, the ritual of their time.
    I have also thought it must be easy to ride without hands.
    Ah! everything tends to become directional with time, and drawn
    off the deep end.       (settle down and be where).
    i know it really has nothing to do with me, but
    with a small