big to be.

The planks and struts and pilings
of boardwalks and piers are
what trees all dream
of growing up and growing
big to be.
They fantasize
of being cut down
and ripped and sawn
into great boards, or left
as trunks
and pounded in
by waterfronts
and salty shores
so happy seaside revelers
can tromp across in hordes. Now,
that makes me sound like an asshole
with a very untreeish view, but
perhaps I am. Perspectives on humanity
gang aft askew.

I remember as a child, going in
and underneath to a rowed and ordered
forest that was mystical as hell.
The trunks all smelt of creosote
and shadow-darkened tar. We went
beyond belief so easily and well,
down there. With the beach outside
so bright, while we with basement
eyes glittering played such shadow games
as never could be named

now, we've gone so far.

Crap, what's with the nostalgia moan?
It was TAG. We played tag, and things
equally dorky, but it sure was spooky

and cool down there. In between
the pilings, roofed by bolted
boards and the floor
of a haunted castle. Well,
haunted castle and amusement pier,
technically. Directly above would have been
the pizza place. It sure was spooky
and cool down there, especially
when you'd clamber all by your lonesome
down the huge rocks' slippery jut
and crag and slope, to wet sand
and through the pilings,
moving always back up and in.
Towards the back of the pier, where
it met its end in darkness. You could
climb in
and hoot
and make echoes, then. I mean,
you could before, but this
was ideal. Or just let the surf
make its own echoes, more
professional and assured
by comparison with your childish
owl-donkey noises. Or you could just sit,

because you could see the whole world
and your life down there.
If you chanced to figure
anything out in that solitude,

you would remember it forever.