KING LEAR ON THE HEATH

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KING LEAR ON THE HEATH

The swarms are moving in.  They pass

Through our breath and fog the glass of days

Completely.  If they have bones, they use

Them to make music, a curious dry, music,

The sound of grasshopper wings in a still field.

We begin to write the opera they contain.

“I am more alive that you.”, wail the flutes,

Lugging their way through storms and broken

Reed to light upon the quick scarves of the 

Tongue and burst into colorful flame, capes

Unfurled, as if they were not paying attention 

To how the story might go.  They eat heroes

And heroines alike, spitting out the small bits,

Extinct and irrelevant but always catching us,

Making us regret their actions, passing us

With thick arms and buckets filled with fascinating

Treasures from the deepest parts of the sea.

Finally we are asked to walk among them,

Suspend belief, give ourselves over to their

Crackling displays that take language out

Of the senses violently, pulling our hair

To direct us in the direction they will have us

Go.  We become weary meeting other people.

Looking for the light in their eyes that allows

Us to understand they have seen what we 

Have seen, heard what they have heard.

From on high we can watch the doors of perception

Swing open and closed, millenniums of behavior,

Always similar to our own but finally crouching

Behind one another, As flies to wanton boys, 

Are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.

We will leave the room quickly, dress without

Caring, only to be warm, find our way into the snow.

We will get into our automobiles, humming to ourselves

To keep some sanity and drive off into  music finally

Done with it, lucky to be alive.