Language could learn a lot from you—
Because you meander—
You get lost so easily.
You aren’t good,
You hook and you have good adversaries.
Speak quietly and especially slow to me
How the rose rises from the exit wound
While the earth and heroism
Sleep.
Are you warm enough, now?
Is the poll incendiary or the
Polder smoldering for some
Supernatural reason?
Are you hot because life jolted you hot?
Were these feathers left on the floor to remind me
Of you—you, the Angel,
Me, the disoriented bird?
The greater dream must look impoverished
On the hill,
Beside the cows and rows of corn and
Sheep we count.
Once we fall asleep and the agriculture of sleep
Falls asleep too
There may be a moment—but just one and
It’ll pass quickly—below—
You will grow from a seed to an aching tree
And the sun will set inside of you.
We don’t remember everything.
But when we meet it’s awkward, and there’s a
Lot we pretend to quietly understand—
We go home and dip inside ourselves, trying to
Pry it out, like change from the seat of a recliner,
Or hair from a stopped drain.
There was an eleventh commandment
And it had something to do with the color blue:
Perhaps it was the pailletted aura of the sun and
The possibility that it was
Point A in the whole sky.
Or, more likely it was how we ought to grieve. How
The heavens should fill our eyes all the way,
And how our eyes should blink, too,
And thank the heavens.
This dream is more science fiction
Than the others.
I meet a camel on the road to Damascus. He falls
Apart instantly, and I’m like why!?
Pretty soon the humps start convulsing and it’s dark
Outside. Blood everywhere.
I throw a saddle over his
Shoulder.
It’s gonna end. I’m gonna wake and he’ll be
Ok.
I keep thinking about the glory of love
How it has holes in it.
And as higher functioning organisms we’re
Drawn to those holes.
We are and the light from outside is.
You are born grass-tall.
