Dust! We’ll go pick fruit,
work in Cal aye forn aye ai,
be exploited. Wrath!
it’s great to travel by railway carriage
but when - calamity - a train gets filled
by crying children, gypsies, soldiers,
I long for a little room and pillow
to lay down horizontal and silently watch
a forest of dreams, a cloud of stillness
but down from the roof, a ladder drops
and I simply can’t help myself reaching upwards
at first wearily but then with strength
of hands and feet, defying gravity,
and up I climb through a secret portal
(the same old handle) into a carriage
that rattles loudly with gypsies, soldiers
where I long to lay down horizontal.
We danced like drunks around the mat
singing ‘Lazybones’ bass and falsetto
until our voices were tired and flat
long through the night with nowhere else to go.
But we had to leave the song
and start real dialogue – completely lost,
not knowing what to say next. Outside, rain
washed away the rules, washed away our games.
And now there’s only us, with senses clean
and now there’s only me, perceiving in
time and space these less than empty faces
and from each eyeball I add up the cost
of aging, water, skeleton, brains, rust:
together in flesh, connected by rain.