Wednesday, 17 March 2010
In This Recurring Dream
Skeletons stand in rows across entire farms,
The wind bursting through each set of bones
Like a whistle in the restless mouth of a boy.
Bones tell us nothing about life or death:
White milk, wide open textbooks in laboratories,
These perfunctory things will outsmart the heart,
Survive like an ugly poem in a time capsule.
And even if I smile, love several women more,
Believe in a brilliant god;
Tonight, let even be enough:
My white sail is a healthy bone.
I wear a scarf,
Smelling of myself, and exit.