(Want Not)

This is not a warning
sir.
I'm fastening defiance to your back-handed supports and
birds to your wrists to stretch you out so
you, too, can feel the thinness of my paper.
And then how we will wrap our arms around the trees!
Mine around a small trunk and back to me
while yours spread like a tangle of nets and tentacles
unending and birthed from some unnatural beast.
Won't that be something
when I become an architect and you build for me
no sky-scraper beyond your reach?
And when children see you they will scream.
And if women who loved you return –they will leave.
But
Oh!
won't it be wonderful?
To be such a being
with such emphasis on extent of feeling!
Then we will go until we say
"this place is mine."
And we will draw lines to walk with our stealth and
make time when we need it.
It will be named our best effort and think
how easy we will walk it's miles with four feet.
And you will reach so far when you touch things
that they will be where you cannot see and
when you tire
your arms will trail
limp and winding though all of our everything.
Then there will come a day
when your hands bloom
thinking such flesh cannot be what it once was
and must have become a wandering vine.
That will be the day you realize
how far from yourself you have grown.
And you will see yourself
without need of a reflection.
And when you view this sight
like children
you will scream.
And then you will be a child too
fooled by your own reaction into aging backwards.
Only
you will not know how to reverse your accident and this
will worry you so
you do not enjoy the recurrence of your youth and beauty
just fear
as you grow toward having
never existed at all.