It Will Start One Day
you know, it will start one day, the ebb
of creative dreams.
the reality of life will stand naked, without words or magic.
reefs, the bones of sunken schooners,
rusty serrated metal, fatigue,
the mumbling of an old man with furry eyebrows
sitting in the bright sun.
you feel with your bare feet the old lines of poetry,
the drying shells of the words once written,
of things already experienced. the ebb, wet, wet sand,
and dirty pearls.
and then I’ll see the aurora of a distant dementia,
but just before that, I’ll see again my young wife,
her hair, and the sun reflecting in it
that looks like a baby ostrich reflecting in a piano lid…
