Clear, unscalable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.
—Auden, "Autumn Song"
Opaque, impossible to read
Springs the Forest of Indeed,
In whose impenetrable woods
You say you think you've got the goods?
And may suppose that you're at home
Plucking mushrooms from the loam—
Except it's toadstools heave in sight
(For convenience, they're all white).
To us the forest reaches out;
Of that embrace there is no doubt.
A hulking redbud overhangs
The deck with its offensive bangs,
Me, though, I feel safe down here—
It clear there's little I've to fear
Since I'll be toast before the ire
Of the supposed forthcoming fire.
I’ve written verse for Xi Jinping;
I've begged Volod’ka P. to sing.
But neither pays me any heed
In this great Forest of Indeed!
Why not, big guys, get back to me—
I might have what you need see,
You never know! The trees say, too,
That—it seems, because of you—
Those now impatient little sprouts
In coming days will loose the louts
And for want of attestation
Put an end to conversation.
June 9, 2024
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