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summer/fall 2007 no. 9


        Not Haiku

When I look up and see branches

framed in the three-pane strip above the blinds,
black and tenuous like brush strokes
against the paper-white sky of late winter, late afternoon,
my eyes are opened
and I think of other filaments
thrusting their fractal tips into some blank —
the blood’s inverted branches gasping into the lungs’ air,
and the tree’s own roots drawn down to water,
blindly in the tree of brown in brown,
like a worm tunneling in darkness,
eating time through one eyeless face and excreting it through the other,
compressing and expanding its long self
through the fragile empty tree it makes,
negative like the lightning’s tree,
budding like rivers seen on a map of distance,
like the nerve-tree coursing through flesh
to lick the air.


                                                                                       . . . . . . . Courtney Druz


In addition to writing poetry, Courtney Druz has worked as a graphic designer and architect in cities along the East Coast and in Jerusalem. She holds a B.A. in Religious Studies from
Brown University and a M.Arch. from the University of Pennsylvania


Copyright © 2007  Entelechy: Mind & Culture. New Paltz, NY. All rights reserved.