The night drips with dreams of blue-green rain
And Rousseau's vegetation,
In the morning, with the weather confused,
I will open my journal
And describe yesterday,
Knocking these words on their small heads
(oblivious of their discomfort,
And their damaged legs and arms
Dangling from the page)
Until they rest, quiet and exhausted,
Maybe unconscious, maybe as a poem.

Such music! So pure and ... (what word?) ...
"Uncrippled." The craters outside are
Lamentable, but our sanctuary draped
With camouflage, is a miracle intact!
And the lights. So honest! And the
Bright children in uniform, lined along
Our way to the bomb-proof doors, offer
Us small Easter baskets with flowers,
Chocolates and a few cyanide capsules.

This hand-clutched 1953 John Deere
Model "A" is a spiteful mule
And mud turtle and a goddamned alcoholic
For gasoline. It has no moving parts.
It shivers with fortunes,
With two, maybe three angels
Sweating and cursing,
Chained in the radiator,
Making the water boil, the oil pulse.
Steering this thing makes my eyes water
And takes my breath away.
And cranking it is a visit with a fatal moment.

Me and the wife had
Some words this morning, but I
Didn't get to use mine.