#7

By

-Poem

And in that conchshell dreams

Of kings and madness

Of kentucky derbies and

Missile launches (just beyond)


We are the cold hard

That rests beneath the soot

And takes from artery to heart

Nitrate and phosphorous alike


And like the topsoil

It takes and takes until

Our dreams can only be made

With more and more


We are the money arrow 

That places us in cold anguish

As I weep for myself, having forgot

A friend and the point of it all


We aren’t anything but the direction

That cannot be blamed for the lack

Of wind to ferry all our feathered

Wearied dreams and send us back


Of lubbock and dallas, of the royal gardens

Of San francisco, Of nashville, tennessee 

And the airport I haven’t been to since the wake

Of the cold hard tiles of my bed where I imagine


Dallas and lubbock and birmingham.

The bay and the east all alike in these

Except for boston which allows  

Only the worst of my best dreams

 

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