WE ARE REALLY NOT THAT SMART
The palaces of the night,
Made of fireflies and moonbeams,
Ropes one hundred thousand
Strong, the night birds throng
The parapets and glide along
The chimneys with their dark smoke.
Actaeon becoming the stag on the edge
Of the forest, his hounds seeing his
Coat glisten and become fur.
Poor the weeping that comes
From the great cities. Lame,
Tired and with wings of pity,
Tied to the coattails of change
So that nothing is recognized
When we pass a place.
“This was your home as a child
And it is a grocery store”, the lights
Depending on our feeble memory.
They even record and play thunder
Storms when the sprays of water
Turn on and wash the vegetables.
We are outside. The world is ours.
Let us run through the garden.
The thin strips of wood that made
Up apple baskets are gone now.
Entire trees are draped in torn
Plastic fluttering with the wind
Alongside of every highway.
Sweet prayers rise from our throats.
Saint Theresa joins us with armloads
Of roses. She tells us about Actaeon,
Gathers the stag in her arms.