Salubrious imp, I thought of the years unpassing,
Sleeping. My dreams sent me to drought, and my
Own words spoke but no one listened. In the early
Morning, tiny birds of text dropped one by one,
And somewhere, someone held my book in her hands.
Life without its torments, I can no longer listen.
Things shift from blue to blue, and my soul cleans
Up afterwards. We are champions, burdened like
Mules against the intelligence of plates soldered to
Our heads. Think with me, the thirsty doubters
Have gone without warning. This getting bent out
Of shape is like that feral cat in the yard. Are we in a
State of grace ? Someone shuffling by the ocean
Sees something and laughs: the surviving, rising sun.
