The Way Of The Coventicle Of The Trees Analysis

Just yesterday afternoon I heard a man

Say he lived in a house with no windows

The door of which was locked on the outside.

This was at a party in New York, New York.

A deep Oriental type, I said to myself,

One of them indescribable Tebootans who

Habitate on Quaker Heights and drink

Mulled kvass first thing every morning

With their vitamins. An asshole. And

Haven't I more years than he? Haven't

I spent them looking out the window

At the trees? Oh the various trees.

They have looked back at me with their

Homely American faces: the hemlocks

And white birches of one of my transient

Homes, the catalpas and honey locusts

Of another, the sweet gum and bay and

Coffee trees, the hop hornbeam and the

Spindle tree, the dogwood, the great.

Horse chestnut, the overdressed pawpaw

Who is the gamin of that dominion.

Then, behind them, the forest, the sodality.

What pizzazz in their theorizing! How fat

The sentimentibilities of their hosannas!

I have looked at them out the window

So intently and persistently that always

My who-I-am has gone out among them

Where the fluttering ideas beckon. Yes,

We've been best friends these sixty-nine

Years, standing around this hot stove

Of a world, hawking, phewing, guffawing,

My dear ones, who will remember me

For a long, long time when I'm gone.

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