Gilliam

 

 

Gilliam ate the kiwi vine and last night

the path light while the light was on!

Gilliam ate three rusted pears and two red chairs.

Gilliam ate the shadow on the barn.

 

 

Nothing is not Gilliam. Not the hill,

not the sign planted on the hill. 

Not the orchard, not the orchard road.

Not the poet’s line, not the word alone.

 

 

Nothing is not Gilliam.

Not the fractals in the fractal flame.

Not the dendrites in your brain. 

Not your hands. Not your sequined face.