Saturday, September 22, 2012
I dream a dream-
It has been said.
The dog alongside wakes suddenly at this very moment,
and the next, springs forth to search out her mate-
she has forgotten her master altogether.
The midnight sun catches in our throats
like so much desert dust.
Yellowed paper and tattered plastic ware from the glove box will do,
So hungry so hungered so very hungry;
Nous sommes Americanes-
And despite or because of this,
A thirsty lot we have become; overturning all that is rooted,
a search for seeing goes on.
Traces of the dream expand forever, as only small, overturned things can grow,
reusing their own past
insomuch that the dream takes a new body, having grown a new soul,
fed upon the desert soil, a sated lot we become,
because of or despite all of this.
And as each wanders purposefully toward reconciliation,
the past tense of the subjunctive hanging
on every word,
our searching walk daily reveals memory
passing orange groves and nutmeg trees
with their fruits and seeds orange, creamy white ,and scarlet-
the pattering music of patio breakfasts drifting like cirrus over cedar fences,
as only a little, dewey rain upon the grass
remains from the night before.
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