No heaven for these short-lived little leaves
The ground growls menacing and crowds
Its depths overwhelm with happiness
At last all succeeds, down at rest where it won’t get in the way
or even in trouble.
Do we write theses about these dreams of flowers and inchoate glimmerings?
Do we throw ourselves off roofs of fortunate comeliness?
No way. We last among the names of our mothers
and strive to perceive ourselves
as they fly off to join the circus
and be freak and eat the heads off passersby.
Where are the flails of yesteryear?
If a dream fell from a tree, would anyone hear?
Is there life after dreaming?
Is there life after questions?
Who abrogates the beaten man’s smile?
What concludes the harpie’s blues?
So what’s so clear about vision?
the dreaming of the end
of life as we know if.