the sun is rising,
the sun is the capacity
lends itself to blooming.
a hand to the limbs beginning.
a single branch can commute miles
back and forth across waterways,
through deserts harsh ground
it is the situation of blessing
the recollection of pecan groves
hundreds of years old.
to fancy the man who would never be photographed,
to know his image well
down to the spine of the last
feather in the hair.
to follow a song clearly
through the line of fire
disregarding boundaries and remote orders.
obedience is for official pact makers,
wrapped in beavers fur
blotting swollen eyes with silk handkerchiefs
over millions in gold dust
now under current in rivers.
the consequence hits only investors
for now the boats sail sharply
and the waters edge glitters.
revenge is in the telling of the story,
the history books shadows
a highway full of broken bodies,
a bushel full of bottles,
pounds and pounds of tongues
and shelters made of lace.
and then there is the dream:
where coal forced nothing,
the gift of the horse was anonymous,
allotment and reserve have no meaning,
no knives around necks.
sometimes it is easier to know what
you wish not to have
than what exactly you wish for.
but the dream was once of a white mask
flashing and shooting out the sun,
now the dream is that that face
never flashed one minute
and a single dance could
turn the song around.