How Black is Black?

There is tottering tripping slipping skidding sliding slithering

stumbling slewing spilling

there is tumbling tossing plummeting plunging plopping pitching

dipping diving dropping.


when a tree, with a girth greater than a caravel’s guts

with a head of branches whose leaves could tickle the bellies of clouds

with roots that stealthily crept along the great labyrinths of Thoth

displacing dislocating dislodging the balance of the universe

like a child tipping over his classmate’s desk

spilling the ink and breaking the well so to

steal all his sage and wonderful scrolls

by osmosis, photosynthesis

by trick, enchantment

by sleight of hand

sending magic jiggly jig into the cambium bark and green cells

to thrive to live to be to grow until The Tree was all.


If The Tree was chopped sawed cut and blasted

Gnawed ignored desiccated debilitated

how dark then, the hole, how deep the wound

in the crust the mantle the outer and inner core?

If all the green sweet things now in mourning went dark

blew themselves into stratospheric dust

to fall as smudgy rain or weird snow or rocks of hail

the black would be The Blackest so that

no soul would ever see the light of any day

and no book, no page, no tome nor scroll could hold a word to stop

the Fall of Man.




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