These pathways are lined with anxious
Dreamers, unable to sleep.
The floors are damp with longing.
Animals drift past unaware of our
We speak to each other abandoning
Some live their entire lives like this.
The trees are terribly upset.
They shake their branches pretending
There is a wind. An elm of great age
Has split itself apart. Pale ropes
In a rage from within the white wood.
Rain. Snow. Are you alone my
Can you hear the red voices
Naming your sweet children
Like an adagio or an intemperance
From the stomach. Unable to swallow
We offer them to your red seasons,
Our hands uncleam. We send them back
To God as if they were a charm
On a little girls first bracelet
That has become lost and causes
A crying as only little girls cry
For lost things. Take away their
Guns before we are all dead.
The dream of the children inviolate.
A spinning our of control, beyond
All kinds of dreaming. Children
Are reduced to names. We forget
They shot from or bodies fully
Alive. We have no idea how love
Impacts the core of our being.
We will do anything to name
How we spin everything against
What we really want to happen.
We call it our lives. Then it becomes such.
So still we think
It might be the young
Of some deep forest animal.
It is not. It is our heart.
I’m breaking the morning.
There are spirits drifting
Through our bloodstreams.
We offer them to the gods.
We think we are smiling
As if there were more information.
Some how there never is enough.
We smile to ourselves.
Whatever we think is poison.
For souls. Sometimes
They are the broad
Leaves of the deep
Purple iris. Sometimes
They are the vestments
Of the eyes as they gaze
Into those of a lover.
Sometimes they are shopping
Four souls, forcing dreams
To submit to their fantasies
Without regard for the hours
Being chanted aloud before
The sun has even considered rising.