He did not see the redness of dawn,
did not smell the blood from
a night escaped by the dexterous and delirious,
did not notice the moon hung low and red-
that crimson light, known by night as
any Sailor’s Delight,
But he did not know this.
He did not care for the opening of flowers,
or know the cost of them,
did not cease to burn
all offerings,
and did not balm his burns,
seeing holiness in the pain;
He did not dream of anything beyond
being swallowed, whole and healthy,
in a pit of mud or amber,
to be preserved, perfectly:
no hunger, no fatigue,
to be perfectly static in the loving arms of
damp uncaring earth,
hoping to be uncovered and revived
when all was right in the world;
and so he remains,
dreaming deeply of dead dreams
He Did Not See The Redness Of Dawn
