Trio No. 7

1.
I cannot change the way a tree watches me walking by. She does not know that I too have immovable roots.

I cannot change the way a frog analyzes my breathing. He does not know that I too began my life in water.

I cannot control the jealous desire of a stone that I too be dead and cold and lifeless. She does not realize that I am her father, mother, wife, brother, friend.


2.
One, two, three
One, two, three
Think.

One, two, three
One, two, three
Blink.

One, two, three
One, two, three
Sink.


3.
A list of objects and compound objects:

An atlas of the United States east coast.

The shoulder blade of a seagull.

A sleeping bag, used each night.

The wet sneakers of a hitchhiker.

A turtle, slowly crossing a busy road.

A gallon of spring water.

The bright green jerseys of a little-league baseball team.

The shadow of the back wall of a drug store.

The locker rooms at Kent State University.

Yellow lines in a parking lot in Indianapolis during a thunderstorm.

The surging waves of Lake Ontario in a stiff wind.

A baguette.

A caesar salad in Galena, Illinois.

The empty buildings of a nameless town in Iowa.

The storm clouds receding over the hills after a tornado.

The window of the penny candy store in Strawberry Point.

The cavern beneath the large tree in the state park.

The swan-shaped boat on the pond at the Vrindaban community in Moundsville.

The peacocks there, too.

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