Monday, February 29, 2016

The Crooked Stick

You said if you shove a crooked stick under water
it gets more crooked. It doesn't matter
if the crooked stick is in water or out.
But a crooked stick is more crooked in water.
I was holding that day a stick
crooked whether in water or out,
crooked on a hazy day, or a windy day.

I did not know that when stuck in water
the stick got more crooked—
which I told you the stick was crooked,
not a straight stick;
but when stuck in the water
is it supposed to become more crooked?
Like I should notice!
What did you mean by more?
Did you measure it?
I didn't see you measure it.

We were just sitting peacefully
beside this clean, swift-running mountain brook,
towering cu in a background of vermillion,
a peaceful wind stirring the conifers.
I was not deceiving myself!
I knew the stick was crooked,
and I dropped part of it into the whirling pool,
in which I had earlier seen a rainbow,
but I failed to notice
it got more crooked than it was before.

Why should this be an argument between us?
But I guess it is.
It has been much on my mind lately.
Why must you punish me?
Can't you see how I am suffering?
So what if I was wrong!
Why should it destroy our love?

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