Two Trees Touching At The Tips
Sometimes when I cross campus lost in solitary thought,
I use properties of triangles to find the most express
routes to where I want to go from where I begin,
and despite my affinity for physics, and fervid
weakness for stimulation, it still takes me forever
to get anywhere at all. And, for no particular reason,
I always end at the same pair of tangled trees--
the ones whose tree-tops touch at their pinnacles, like
they are forging a secret nature-bond. I pretend
they're telling secrets in tree-speak, secrets about all the
people below and how the one girl's boots are dainty
and did you see how amiable that boy was, picking up
her books for her. Underneath those trees, masses of
people often linger, like a soup that congeals and
hardens, under the membrane of innumerable legions of
leafs. Sometimes then, I often pretend it is just me
and the two trees, touching at the tips, telling secrets,
while I pretend not to listen, and for some reason,
knowing that I'll not know makes me feel earthly
and blissful in my ignorance.
