TreeHouse

Ian MacAllen

I love Jordan Baker.
Sitting in a tree house,
between the summer green leaves and warm autumn breeze,
I wander here and there,
dreams of Kubla Kahn circulate,
Here: where I am now
There: the place I'm going.
Circulate: to distribute in thought.

Sunrise vigils seek endless nights,
failed attempts; I cradle her then.
Woken by her breathing she is looking at me.
Naked eyes stare back and forth,

Moonlit face sewn of silk,
stitched with tears,
she refuses my shoulder.
Be nude, I explain-
she understands-
elaborate:
	I tell her things and she responds
	She tells met things and I cry.
Knock!  Knock!
And like Kubla Kahn,
she has gone.

Alone.

Listless days ahead, green summers ended,
I am now There,
wishing I was Here.

Lightning struck my tree house,
and the thing burnt to the ground last April.