After the dream of a white bed topped with a pool of water,
where in that dream I took photos of the white bed & the water,
look at the crushed flowers afloat in the water . . .
that same night I dreamt I was a child again, I threw a fit, I
rolled on the carpet of the governmental office, in front of both
officials, I beat my water bottle on the ground
I was
last in line at the close of day, they skipped me though
I saw
there was time.
Sing with me, sing with me the mouse song . . .
All Saxony a flood through which the chilled leaves of nettle rose,
heavy with water—coins!, coins!—I give you half, you lend me yours,
I buy horses & briny, French hair bows . . . the shopkeepers smile—
who will counterdict us?
Though we danced we watched the better dancers bend out of shape,
these separated, moved toward the corners,
the strands of their hair tore apart, we held them & though
they did not cry, we made pain.
I deserve nothing? I? I?
There is so much intuition left on the exposed outcrops. Won’t we scrape it off the
beams, the split plinths, until nothing is left?
You are not a streak of grease on a larger tongue, my long, loose children. You are
unstuck. You coat the mechanism of the clock tower with a muddy glow.
Go. Go. You smooth the passage of blank hooves into heaven.