Lynchian: a moving shadow

1

A moving shadow, nothing, just a tree,

a late light shifting from the expected place,

all the small insignificant darknesses

that gang up on the imagination. Here they move

with their silent melodramatic shrieks

seeking a wall to touch, and yet persisting

in the darkness of the forest or the road.

2

A moving shadow, nothing, just a tree

in field or forest. Here’s the midnight park

behind the empty street. Under the skin,

children are playing, and the train

waits at the station, forever drawing in

to crepuscular music on a stage

with the reddest curtains you have ever seen.

3

A moving shadow, nothing, just a tree

with a blonde woman walking away from it

into a room or chair or a fluffy unmade bed

where someone else is sleeping. Someone speaks

in a voice inside a head. It might be hers

or the tree in a landscape of speaking trees.

Must you be so creepy, the voice is saying.

4

A moving shadow, nothing, just a tree.

But David, you must stop these endless games,

says the tree. Grow up, David. It’s late

and we have to go to bed. Turn off the music.

Concentrate on the shadows on the wall.

Unpeel yourself from the wallpaper. Sit up.

Lie down. Stop speaking. Shut up. Shut up.

5

A moving shadow, nothing, just a tree

in the branches of which hoots an owl. Symptoms

of dizziness. Another stage, more curtains,

more transformations. One finds oneself

by listening. Are you listening, David?

And music pours from the tree in copious bars

as if living were a matter of moving shadows.