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I tried to call you in a dream
The one where we are small animals
Born in the splintered dark, hermit crabs
Scuttling beneath the wintered ends of song,
Moles scratching through wronged silence
Thick as dirt in mouths longing for music
In which to drown the prayer of
Hands churning toward a sort of thick-
Skinned wandering, as if we knew
What prayer meant, as if, grinning,
We could ask the wind and it would answer.
In the dream, trees sway toward reason,
Dropping leaves on us til we wake,
As if we could take flight, shawled in a sort
Of light—this is a prayer after all—
One where we dissolve—should we choose—
Into a new language made from the confused
Cries of crows over a fallow field. |
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