In the dream someone follows the flier, they both rise slowly into the air. They rise above the rooftop, spraying chains of plastic beads and mystery creatures as they rise. Soon they are out of sight, and I am thinking that I can not wait for them to come back down. It rains, and I awake to rain on the rooftop. The street slick mirrors and plumes of spray.
In my heart reside the usual murders. Brutal beatings, the ragged work of an angry knife. I have watched people speak their last words and go on living, as I proclaim that my bad day ought not be the burden of the world. The dry calluses of the shovel, the stiff givings of the earth. My monastery airs are largely the ministrations of folk remedies that keep murder waiting in the wings. I breathe away these storms, given enough atmosphere. The cherished metaphor drowned in cleansing blood.
The empty grave yawns beneath the grapefruit tree, full of dirt and leaves. Before we count our blessings, stipple the flowing sky with miracles, and bow to worship the risen dead, we need to count causes and check the windows. Work away all the reasons, wish away all the wounds. I never reclaimed the ashes. I never rested the remains in the hole dug on a ruined blue dawn. The body never met the bed made for it, instead becoming the rendered plunder of so many broken prayers. Rain and thunder fill the sky, shedding tears upon the disturbed earth. The day bled away, with no dream to leave behind.
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