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Beyond St. Anne’s and the Bernardines,
where the liturgical calendar
is marked by a family of bells,
the monastery is held
within sand, and hills, and all that is green.
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When I was small, my mother explained the
colors of the flag to me: yellow is the wheat field in
the month that I was born; green is the forest tree in
the summer; red is the blood released so she could be
here to tell me.
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but there is no war
says the boy
running down the street
the war ended
when the planes came
and we didn't make it
to the shelter
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With such beauty the heart is freed
For the traveller who yearns to roam.
If only the eye could still see to see
The shores of Dubysa, my home.
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a time when people were
not afraid of each other?
must be a bad joke
ask any rowan
by the road
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A lonely lover sings
Or maybe
We are the song
The lyrics don't make sense
We keep forgetting the words
Let's stay for another one
Just one more
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i have a dark pocket
i try to avoid that place in my mind
where the Earth is a little blue marble
the size of a pea and we are
never there
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and all of this must be preserved against time
though once a doctor made it very plain:
if there are some patients who feel cool
because they wrote a poem or two
let them try and operate on someone's brain
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step out of the dream box, o Hamlet, your hour draws near
step out of the dream box
step out of the dream box
you can wear a colorful dress and sail and sail down the river
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I am the water running down gutters,
the sound of conversations echoing off walls.
Isn't it beautiful? I ask,
The things that bind us.
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can it be that you’re a miracle (I always hear this word),
not a real one, but as if, as if it were a question of belief
the belief or knowledge that you are an independent
heart’s pulse, viscous dust quickened by lightning
