(no subject)
Night Bones
If I could turn the universe upside-down and walk there
would that universe carpet be smooth and cool beneath my feet?
Would the black glass of night be cool as bone against my cheek
and would the silk caress of bone on bone sing me to sleep?
And would the sound of the crickets singing their babies to sleep
lull me too in the cricket grass, and would I rest,
alone in the warm grass at last?
And would hunger stop circling at last if I could taste the milk of the sky?
And if I forgot for long enough, would hunger finally die?
Did I dream I died? I thought the night
invented that. The dream, the central secret,
the utter truth of beauty that reinvents itself:
the dual edge of possibility and failure fills us utterly,
and the impossible bones of night are our pillars,
and we circle eternally at the edge of invented realities
until our night bones rest utterly against the cheek of the sky.
If I could turn the universe upside-down and walk there
would that universe carpet be smooth and cool beneath my feet?
Would the black glass of night be cool as bone against my cheek
and would the silk caress of bone on bone sing me to sleep?
And would the sound of the crickets singing their babies to sleep
lull me too in the cricket grass, and would I rest,
alone in the warm grass at last?
And would hunger stop circling at last if I could taste the milk of the sky?
And if I forgot for long enough, would hunger finally die?
Did I dream I died? I thought the night
invented that. The dream, the central secret,
the utter truth of beauty that reinvents itself:
the dual edge of possibility and failure fills us utterly,
and the impossible bones of night are our pillars,
and we circle eternally at the edge of invented realities
until our night bones rest utterly against the cheek of the sky.