Sunday, December 14, 2008

Blessings from a Sleeping Dog

author’s note:

This poem did come from a trip--but one made while I was asleep.


I’ve gone out to the waveland
today.  Where the wheat
rushes up against you
like a dog that wants
to give you
its blessing.

My blood itches
from the burnt
golden scent–
I know
my heart will
make bread
from that smell.

My eyes leap over the wheatfield
toward a horizon that teases desire

yet I remain still--I will not
from this spot--I refuse
to search anymore
for any font.

And so
the water swells up
under my feet--I can feel
the spring rising
in my veins.

A dog lies curled
in the turned soil, sleeping
like a fetus.  Raindrops
made its eyelids

Yet all the while
this dog travels
deeper underground.

See how
the yellow-starred wheat
grows dark,
grows green dark
as you descend
the elevator stalk--?

the roots link together
to whisper a conspiracy
against death.

In this rare moment
of stillness, I realize
peace will not
end desire: which is
my good fortune:
to always know growth
             my desire
to heal every mirror
will stretch me out
in all directions,
to all points
on the plane--

good fortune:
the great net
will bind me
even as
I’m torn apart.

All this, in the waveland today.
Along with the blessings
of a sleeping dog.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
myth steps
earnest audio

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