One wrapped in money,
one in sin:
The shadow puppets dance begin,
They eat each other in the end.
A summer in the country—bliss,
Our Mother takes, our mother gives;
New flowers born, the daisies die,
And the monsters come alive.
How numerous the limbs, the vines,
That Mother Nature twists through time—
Each after another of their kind:
The changelings as they come to breathe;
pass through newborn forests in the spring.
A walk amongst a place once bare,
The great Magnet—it moves them all,
From the orbit of the sun,
to shooting stars that we see fall.
From the first path to the last.
The threads behind it all, they loom,
In the stillness of a rented room,
In the Autumn I watch bloom,
their endless walk upon the road:
a walk amongst once empty places,
walking on hallowed ground.
Ivy runs under the house,
Her tear-stained eyes turn pink, they swell:
truth is the poor man’s holy grail.
Beyond the rug in Hera’s hearth,
In the unending cosmic yard—
Saturn is another piece amongst her lighted pearls;
And Earth, a mote of dust, perhaps,
Between the gates of hell and heaven trapped;
Caught in the mouth of a breeze,
In one pale beam of light—
And in the night when they get quiet,
dust settles on the floor;
to wait for another breath,
to put usfiid into flight again,
to send us out the door—
adrift amongst the stars once more.
Sometimes a stroll just down the street,
where the last flowers grow
A kaleidoscope of patterns,
Mixed in a goldfish bowl:
In a circle down they go,
And back to that long winding road,
On the bank between the stream,
I thought I heard an old man scream:
“Why nod the weary worshipper outside?”
And “T’was the grape!” some shadow cried.
Seeing you go down the drain,
Your burial at least;
Don’t worry for a brief reward—
You’ll make it out to Sea.
Memories are written in the sand,
And by sand away,
The Madonna was yours for free;
She wouldn’t stay, he couldn’t leave;
So instead they made a world between:
A ballroom make believe to meet,
so in love, out of their minds,
dance two people of one kind.
That angel, my Dear Fantasy,
Miss make believe across the Sea,
Of land that parts like sand.
And, in the ballroom, dancing there,
Not one worry nor a care,
A polonaise hung in the air,
And they together sing, they hum:
The best is yet to come.