One dawn I crawled out of the gutter

Into the public:  just a woman in tears.

A group of children was snoozing nearby.

Don’t wake us up!

They cried as if they were half-alive.

I kneeled on my rug and swatted the air.

Sandwiches and small canteens were spilled nearby.

Flies delivering maggots gathered around

I hate buzzing sounds I said to the kids.

Shut up, a little boy cried, I’m dreaming. 

* * *

Neon clothes hangers brighten the laundromat.

One boy naps face up on a bench.

A gold badge shines above his head,

Another lies on the floor at Juvenile Hall.

The kids wish a crocus would grow on the linoleum.

Children need a rest, their minds are swimming in junk and fists,

They want the water of the unconscious.

It would mean childhood more or less.

Look at them sprawled where George Washington stood,

Their backpacks like skunks curled in the shade.

* * *

So we all fell asleep that afternoon

Like drunks on a picnic.

Nobody jerked us from our confusion.

Not pilgrims or immigrants or angels from another field.

Sun on closed lids inspires illusions.

When I was a girl there was an orange pearl

That turned the butter yellow

With four strokes of a wooden spoon.

She laid out a patch of grass

As an offering to the inevitable.

Woven of vetch, pinks, a gentian and a daisy

It showed her family loafing.           

And had a brown dog watching.

(My friend before dying gave me a flower

That never needed water.)

She always needed water.

The shrub was still there by the back door

Of the house and all the trees were present.

This is the past I can give you

As you fly ascendant by

But most importantly please visit her

And soothe those you created now in agony.

* * *

A lot of boys and girls were forced from home.

They’re at rest at last.

They were transported by wood on the sea.

Look at them!

I wish I could see a day when we

Had our own acre and shared the guitar

But I’m only hoping so don’t make me swear.

They walked the mote.

Brown grasses pansies roses white clematis and hellebore.

Glad to live below and have mercy and no power

They would crawl backwards rather than climb up to the tower.

* * *

We were near the First Church of Christ

At the hour the city hall

Creaks with adolescent tramps:

Boys and girls you can pity

Mercilessly.  Pimples

And rings in their tongues and noses.

They snore and shake and flip

From psychosis back into religion.

One was glad God stayed in outer space.

Another one wanted God in the ground but breathing.

One was hopeful that God moved around handing things out.