The Warren: Anonymous's "I"

"I," Authored Anonymously

you

walk subconsciously down a gravel hilll,

(steep in daylight):

the warm wind welcomes you,

embracing.

The darkness flowing, suddenly is

a howling locomotive (scary music here),

the zephyr starts, stands up, and blows its frantic notes of thunder

your travel-path

curves casually

through the puddled lane

as you continue walking.

Then you are doing

something here,

something there,

watering some pigs

(bathed in light by

your kinesthetic memory)

Night is a comforting television

and the dark Hound becomes a reassuring

Lassie.

The picture is bad, blurry contours

of you

silhouette on corduroy aluminum panels,

grey

flecks of light on the dark swine

starkk

wooden fences in the background,

and waterslicks

become muted rainbows in the low light.

still almost dreaming,

you return to your earthen jar home

light escapes through its chinks. the wind is

a friend, a perfectly-fitting pillow

the hill is climbed.

the cat sits, unpoetic

deprived of his mystery

by harsh electric light.

you reenter the clay through

its neck

you "totseins" the soft wind in the threshold,

finally aware,

that you

have given up

a constant

mother

who bathed

you in love

and clean, soft, warm water

you step out of the bathtub, and

back into the cold world of people,

strangely content.

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