Scenery overflows the riversFlooding the lake with bountiful imagesExpanding the water that lines the eyeFlooding the mind,RepeatedlyUntil it can no longer contain the soaked shores,Until like so many dams wreaked byNegligence and shameIt gives way to the torrential influx ofImageAfterImageSo bombarded that it fails to distinguishBetween a water worldAnd its ownSo over-filled that it is beyond
Up until the borderline of sunriseTwo swaying blades of grassEtch outlines of lips and ginPleasure the object of their stemLonesome the ground around their rootsThey seek comfortIn the soft undergrowth of a lawnThe reminders that come fromYears of being mowed down
There are people out thereRight nowThat are happyNot just in piecesOr here and thereBut as a wholeThey feel like they are okayThey are capableOf doing what they wantWithout spending an hour or twoJust lying in bedWaiting for vials of neurochemicalsTo charge up their brainOr sleeping enough to get lostIn the paralyzed roomsOf their own inner conflicts
Believe me, this was true last night,Tho' it is false to-day.-- A.M.F. Robinson.A fair dream to my chamber flew:Such a crowd of folk that stirred,Jested, fluttered; only you,You alone of all that band,Calm and silent, spake no word.Only once you neared my place,And your hand one moment's spaceSought the fingers of my hand;Your eyes flashed to mine; I knewAll was well between us two.On from dream to dream I past,But the first sweet vision castMystic radiance o'er the last.
You glow in my heartLike the flames of uncounted candles.But when I go to warm my hands,My clumsiness overturns the light,And then I stumbleAgainst the tables and chairs.
The big mountains sit still in the afternoon lightShadows in their lap;The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with delight.We sitting here among the cranberriesSo still in the gapOf rock, distilling our memoriesAre sinners! Strange! The bee that blundersAgainst me goes off with a laugh.A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and wondersWhat about sin?--For, it seemsThe mountains haveNo shadow of us on their snowy forehead of dreamsAs they ought to have. They rise above usDreamingFor ever. One even might think that they love us.Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,