The leather boats lift themselves
away from their ropes on easy hinges.
One passes the land of the dead
on the bus into town. One returns
from the root of the sky covered
in icicles. I focus on their glasslike
feel, their crystal breathturn.
What do you mean, I am rapid,
flying on breathways? No one
really dreams any more, the bread
of the dream, the haste of the dream,
yet anyone who awakes has overslept
the look of night, grass
written asunder.
My heart passes through the pause,
the whirring woods, the nettle message
of the ghetto-rose, that petalless flower.
I imagined God as a book, not
where you cannot be, eternalized,
non-eternal you, reader in the after
world, dropping your ghost-rosary.