What chance is there of making dreams
with the mind and hand working together?
At the end of rehearsals for a larger life
they are stuck sometimes with common revelries;
egg/sun dropping out in the ocean
leaves only the promise of another vaster day.
There is our campfire returned to ashes,
the air is asleep in the trees. The notes
of the song have dissipated unflinchingly
among the stars; the surf is now a ribbon
of sound. What is left after the feast
except the empty cluttered tables
and one more memory?
The seals and birds have gone to their rocks
and we to the warmth of our selves.
What need is there now to light the sky,
to shout into a deep sea,
to offend the slumbrous deities
one by one wrapping themselves
in the solitude of world without myth?