This road alone was left before me.
It is a forest or a tale; dirigibles land on the roofs as
the village removes its plague-stricken dead in
wooden carts that rumble away under the cover
of night. While the master shoemaker sleeps
fitfully, the dwarfs get busy making his shoes.
The desert stretches full-length in my dreams,
studded with dangers and cautionary tales.
It is a twofold message, part headed in a different
direction: one disappears like a squirrel into the
kingdom of flora inside of my head, the other awaits
me like a sentry in front of my door.
And there, in the all-night cafeteria where
immigrants hide their broken teeth in their
sleeves, like a drop of ink that travels from iris to
iris, the message lets me know the secret at last;
the empty glass on the table prays for some wine.
Eyes gaze into the distance, while Billie Holiday
sings from the core of her black agony: I SLAVED
And the earth floats among the planets.