The first thing I remembered were the birds,
a wall of grackles screaming from somewhere
out beyond my ears.
Then it was all the dogs
and the slow moving whine
of trains that were falling back asleep.
See, I’d forgotten to weep.
I’d forgotten to make wallpaper out of gourds
and vests out of family newspapers.
The jonquils were burning
and all I saw
was grass turning
the color of money.
Tommorrow, I want you to be my guest.
I want rocks to make hammocks out of trees.
I want tires to find time for wine at breakfast.
Please, take my heart,
make it the size of Yankee stadium during the ‘59 Series.
Carry it’s mail
like the wind carries our thoughts to North Dakota.
O.K., here’s my list:
I want grandchildren that fly.
I want houses that sing great big songs (like Woody Guthrie did).
I want streets that dance til 5 a.m.,
angry, sweating, sexy.
I want to wander through your dreams.