We do not dream of sanity
but we peer towards its
icy depths, its pools of
partied, encrockeried
fish, upturned, gaping towards that
emblazened sun, which
scorches us, duneless nomads.
I danced on the glass ceiling,
or the paved underground
but the taxies in their sliding
smiles, unthreaded, unwoundable,
would reverberate like plaintive
echoes into the glass ceiling
that cracks from above in
impossible hope, hopeless and
happiest where
there lay no hope but in the present.
So the Brooklyn tread,
or the Coventry constable,
would line in pillored graveyards,
to the ragged tunes of nursery
rhymes, pealing from the bells,
like music, tolling between our lives
to still the truths of silence.
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