There Are Precisely 2,946 Trees in the Lake
Invisible needles are falling out of the sky. The birds are
not singing. A jazz musician wearing a red hat is playing
the saxophone to a river filled with leeches. Fan blades.
Pine cones. Pikes with three mouths, each one singing an
elegy in a dissonant key. In the air, feathers. Everywhere.
Cascading. A barrel-chested man is pulling a rope down
from what simply has to be heaven. Nothing is on fire.
Not even the fire. I take pictures of my insides with a tiny
microscope and send them as postcards to strangers. My
lungs to the God of Shouting Dangerously. My kidneys to
the Patron Saint of Silly Prayers. My gallbladder, I send to
no one, because it isn’t interesting. Every creature in the
forest calls me a coward. I sew myself up with a crow
quill, and a strand of spidersilk stolen from a web.
William James is a poet, aging punk, and train enthusiast from Manchester, NH, and the author of 'rebel hearts & restless ghosts' (Timber Mouse Publishing). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in literary journals such as BOOTH, Forklift OH, Hobart, Gravel, & Five:2:One, as well as various punk zines & the occasional vinyl LP. You can find him online on Twitter (@thebilljim) or at http://www.williamjamespoetry.com.