How much better these actual dreams than the vulgar "hoped for," the future's golden steps which are really old cement blocks stacked at a door that can never open because we are already inside. Is all prayer just barely short of the lip of whining as if, however things are, they can't possibly be quite right (what I don't have I probably should), the sole conviction praying for sick children? But true dreams arrived without being summoned, incomprehensibly old and without your consent: the animal that is running is you under the wide gray sky, the sound of those banal drumbeats is the heart's true reflection, all water over your head is bottomless, the sky above we've learned quite without limits. Running, he wears the skins of animals to protect his ass in the misery of running, stopping at the edge of the green earth without the fulsome courage to jump off. He builds a hut there and makes the music he's never heard except in the pulse of dreams. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO ANTHEA [WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING] by ROBERT HERRICK THE CAVALIER'S SONG by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL ON A GRAVE IN CHRIST-CHURCH, HANTS by OSCAR FAY ADAMS EDONI: THE WORSHIP OF COTYS by AESCHYLUS MOON OF LOVELINESS by MUHAMMAD AL-MU'TAMID II THE LUNCH by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD by SARAH TITTLE BOLTON |