The Only Thing That Matters

A Different Mind than Mine

A Different Mind than Mine 57 In the dream my body rose from its sleep and dreamed it owned a different mind than mine. This sadness wasn’t new. Like a light in the dark which seeks but doesn’t find others like it. Where did this need begin? Where does it end? Coupled whites, glazed over, waded through traffic. So sure of themselves, sure they wouldn’t go under. Often, when I walked I thought, fear IS the height of heart. 58 On a face framed by day the sound goes out and moves my mouth in the direction of thunder past glass and ashes past the shiny patch of palm trees a gallery of skeletons longing for lost flesh or something else. Tears shimmer in a cup by the window. In this bed of emotions we’ll know when to signal and when to swallow the hard part— when you approach coasting in an iron skin split into seven petals closed around your body. On this slender bed of silver and stone gentle light seems to melt what seems like ice. 59 Slipping into grief. This space is the parade reaching K Street. No one is meeting for coffee. Afterwards, a penny drops, then another. Ya hiati, blue is for face. Green is for disgrace. 60 The sound of town rounds the edges as a lover takes ashes for elm imitation for rainbow a warring nation for dark-hearted beauty. 61 The unthinkable was in our bloodstream. It was still in our blood to panic— at the accidental cruelty of the merely curious. Lovers of beauty as distant as a rainbow’s dividends should never surrender should read Rumi at night and take care of others. 62 Longtime it was I noticed the hole in your heart where I used to find home. Longtime it went on. Mountains were crossed. Children came in and out. Their questions were beautiful and familiar: Why does the moon keep running away from us? Where do birds go when it rains? Who made my toes? 63 In the glass by the window little poems glitter emergency colors—red yellow. All is in ruins. A story more ancient than Troy. No surprises. No sudden spears. Just cover with sand and count the years. Says the spirit guide: Don’t hold your breath You’re not going to die. 64 Nothing was worth anything and everything was worth nothing when love was fugitive. The reverse was true too. Fugitive love was, and we were weeping. The sun became a toy ball floating around at its own convenience. Look into our faces, and you’ll see the same dull traces of the system we tried so hard to erase. ...