Men Poem by Taylor Rosewood

Consciousness is a lean-to
I've constructed throughout
the Siskiyou. It bears the
screeching of the scrub jays,
sprouts feet and wonders off,

into the Red Buttes where it
feels for God's existence, or
down through the hemlocks,
to the edge of a murky lake.

But high on a sugar pine it
noticed in the tree line, it
reflects on days in Weed,
and carries on to take a peek,

for here's where blue-eyed
dawn has a date with sultry
Shasta, overdressed in molting
feathers for a lavish lesbian ball.

Of course a kiss is to be
expected, and a lodgepole
is soon erected, but that's too
much dissected.

This consciousness thing is
strange, and I'm happy to share
the view.