Known a few girls, been with some women. Don't understand them, guess that's a given but sometimes I catch a glimpse and it's real. The dancing chimps, the boys and the men doing the things over and again, they don't see it, they don't know, cold mornings pissing in the snow while the girls and the women inside of the house and inside of themselves are warm and thinking and not scared of that mouse but screaming out loud, not scheming or tricking but what has happened to Daryl Hannah's face? It was weird to begin with but now and holy cow this is how they do it. Just when the locks are tumbling into words from the mumbling the birds start chirping and the girls and the women are back under the covers calling their mothers, seducing their lovers and it's okay and it's good. But the girls and the women are like ancient trees in a Sicilian forest, Chestnut Trees of One Hundred Horses and all I can see is the wood. A table, a chair with pretty hair and maybe the boys and the men don't even care but I want to tie a rope to the branches and swing back and forth until I have counted all of the leaves above.
If it was me I'd never cut down a tree just to count the rings in its trunk. But the ramus supporting my rope will eventually crack and I'll be back in the snow with the rest of the boys and the rest of the men. Not trees any more, the girls and the women are springs, water from the mountains or jumping things. If only I could stretch them out and lay them flat, maybe they would recoil with me in the middle. But the riddle about girls, about women remains. And whether the sun shines or the heavens give rain, I'll always enjoy playing these games. I'm in love.
