I am not with you now

I guess what I would say to you is this…

If you lie down beneath a tree and touch yourself,

I still won’t be there, nor will love.

The tree will not acknowledge of your pleasure.

Your touch upon yourself, the only measure.

A child fingerpainting draws in gentle circles.

Your head throws back, the circles tighten.

The ferns are in you now.

The artery beneath your chin will thicken with your pulse.

You shudder and your sap runs softly into moss

That grows beneath the tree

Inside the fissures of thick roots

Entwining your convolsive pleasure.

— Bill Schubart, Fall 1993