Olive Green [thought cycle]

Olive Green, quiet cotton, pressed feet,
written about who knows who. never that
that is so close to me. and why, why
that dreams are always
“Come to me that which I do not want.”
Not nightmares, nightmares misunderstood
as humans passed us;

Olive Green, light through glass, unsure
of deep set symbolism, sometimes the pen
just wanders, lets me wonder, us, lets us
wonder; not that that is so close to me.
no, unfortunately never that, the invisible
line on the page is drawn with each twisted
black horizon, a block of words, always so
square, so rectangular, pushing down into
the confines of the space like water, no
solution, no precipitate, all homogeneous,
the same thing looping over and over.

Olive Green, I don’t know why Olive Green,
perhaps it’s madness, crept into the deep
cracks in the mind, maybe always had lain
dormant. And why not her, why has
she slipped so quietly out out up up and
away from dreams. Is she unavailable because
she is flying in space freely on her own?

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