Friday, June 22, 2007


In the dream, the tiger was alive but the child did not notice
Its gills were made of moss and the child wept and walked
And had no idea that the tiger was eating its own gills.
She had been in a clean white room for over 2 days,
Had slept and woke, eaten lemon water through her nostrils,
Her bleeding heart like a bleeding windmill within itself.
When she happened upon the tiger she did not notice
But we in the bus did.
We had been talking about love, six girls and a gay guy.
Juliette had worn grey shampoo, not washed out and we told her she looked old.
Mabel had red stockings. I had nine etchings I had bought at a thrift store.
Three were of a scene that progresses from
One man scared of love until his dying day with a graceful mistress.
There was death in the air when the tiger bit.
The child’s limbs were shotty anyway, now she was simply a mess of bone.
We wanted to cry but we couldn’t help thinking that it was all kind of beautiful:
The tiger, the bus, the red stockings.
The sun bleeding in spite of itself.
The sun’s heart like a bleeding spirt that lights the world.
Don’t you see, it is the sun that lights the world?
You take it all very simply, but it is the sun that does it all.
And without it you would be swimming in darkness,
Unsure of tiger, leech, or bitter friend.

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