I Dream Of Lost Vocabularies

I Had Lived All Of My Youthful Dreams, But I Couldn't Think Of Many Adult Ones. I Finally Realized That We Don't Have Many Dreams For Adults Because, Historically, People Have Always Died Much Younger Than They Do Today.

You Will Love Again, People Say. Give It Time. Me With Time Running Out. Day After Day Of The Everyday. What They Call Real Life, Made Of Eighth-inch Gauge. Newness Strutting Around As If It Were Significant. Irony, Neatness And Rhyme Pretending To Be Poetry. I Want To Go Back To That Time After Michiko's Death When I Cried Every Day Among The Trees. To The Real. To The Magnitude Of Pain, Of Being That Much Alive.

We Exist With A Wind Whispering Inside And Our Moon Flexing. Amid The Ducts, Inside The Basilica Of Bones.

To Hear The Faint Sound Of Oars In The Silence As A Rowboat Comes Slowly Out And Then Goes Back Is Truly Worth All The Years Of Sorrow That Are To Come.

It Is Convenient For The Old Men To Blame Eve. To Insist We Are Damned Because A Country Girl Talked To The Snake One Afternoon Long Ago. Children Must Starve In Somalia For That, And Old Women Be Abandoned In Our Greatest Cities. It’s Why We Will Finally Be Thrown Into The Lakes Of Molten Lead. Because She Was Confused By Happiness That First Time Anyone Said She Was Beautiful. Nevertheless, She Must Be The Issue, So People Won’t Notice That Rocks And Galaxies, Mathematics And Rust Are Also Created In His Image.