Tuesday, March 13, 2012

explaining my dreams to the heathen

you say that dreams are not to be taken
quite literally, not quite
to be believed

but that is not what i meant little
bairn, sweet heathen,
you were there, and you were not there.

you did not see the little duckling
or its mama's broken neck
you did not see that limpness like a slack
silk chord

and you were not the one
who was shot.

and in this way
i am very strange:

i can love forever
like a stream which does not

i can love for now
and loosen, like a

and i can love in future

for all the days and nights
i tossed and crew

trying to crawl between your ribs,

i feel now as if my chest's cage
has been flayed and splayed bare

i knew i would find you there
there were i have held you

soaked in woad,
a little bairn,
sweet my heathen,
so unwilling,

you do not know what it is
i dream of--

how black the ink or how
stubborn the stain.

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