A Lyric Museum of Life and Art
Sunday, September 9, 2012
On What We See In Our Sleep
It was the blind girl from the rez who
stole the baker’s missing bread;
it was the guitar playing fool who crooned
and raced the wild mustangs through our heads.
It was the village idiot who played
his chess without the fool, the bowl
of soup who said
too late, too late, too late
to blame the thread, the spoon, the text, the mole.
Beside the waterfall of fallen things
just east of town, it was the bearded man
attaching fallen things to angel’s wings
while singing legends to the long, long grass.
It was the moon who laughed and laughed.
It was the moon who laughed herself in half.
Left for you by
Sunday, September 09, 2012
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