Out of passion in a time
Of plenty
Out of want in time of hunger
Out of seeking a way
in no way
Out of singing an empty
song,
let the coldness of life
deliver me
let the warmth of death,
like sugar in a coffee spoon,
teach me
that all is other
than my dream.
Dream, my dreams are roads that men
and women travel
the sun washes their feet
They have taken off their fears and carry them
slung
over one shoulder.
In the heat of day
in the remembrance of each other’s death
they lay them down, these burdens,
and walk on.
The highways of the body
cross the heart
the heart beats out its melody
the stars dance to the melody
the stars shift before the vision
as the dream grows in waking
as fear fades before acceptance
as the traveler leaves the highway
to sleep in the fields.
The men the women stop
they plant corn and build houses
and the sparrows of the fields fly into
their windows
break their necks on invisible panes
of glass
and fall to lie invisibly in
tall grass, heads ajar, feet slightly
curled.
This is but a moment of time past
it holds no new wonder, no lesson
there are no truths to carry men like
camionettes along the highways of the soul
no places there to stop
and build such dwellings as the body
hungers after.
And we the dreamers soon lie naked
in the naked fields
we break our necks on panes
of invisible worlds that hold us
tightly clasped
like stones inside a mountain
the sun in passing turns us into grass
that sparrows eat;
our heartbeat joins the stars,
the faraway stars in the great fields
of night,
leaves in the great dwelling place
beyond the sun,
the stars that break on invisible paths
of light,
to fall invisibly into dark time,
heads ajar, feet slightly curled.
© Mike Bond 2012
First published by City Lights Books
