Wednesday, September 5, 2012

First Sleep, Second Sleep, Dream

The whole point of pastoralism
Is that the idyll realizes 
It is unreal. It is a world,

Definitely, an entire world, 
But that world suspends
From an indefinite article,
And, being complete, is complete
Enough to include a sense
Of other worlds, its own incompletion.

The city and city extensions fail
To invade that last peculiarity
Of the forest of evolving dreams.
They have their footpaths, they landscape
The architecture of their claustrophobic parks
Full of persons from all walks of whatnot,
But only seem to ingest and surround. Here,

Let me show you. The town too bright
To see anything but the moon at night
Holds bosky scraps of courtyards,
Murmuring, as if captive. The lion

In the fountain where the couple
Pretend to understand each other's lives
In the guise of lovers beyond their bodies
Thrumming to succumb is quiet,
Metaphorical plaster that growls
Because it does not belong to the town,
The couple in its fountain, the lights, 
Or the moon, such as it is among society,

But to the forest dreaming all of these
In the round realization that what is not
The darkness unadorned must have come
From somewhere else or, if not, must dim
In estimation like the solipsist's mirror, sad

To dream of reading something new,
Then to find only blanks and memories
Among the mushroomed roots.
The woods grow back and bring
Their foolish, bark-peeled pan pipes
With them, deeper and deeper, down and down.

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