Once we dreamed of streetcleaners (experimental collage)

once we asked the question:
when will the leaves become birds?
once we held our dead closely
as if there might be some word

but the blood no longer dreams of poppies
the rain is full of holes–we’re at one
with the season that will not come

still the plover shimmies
still the plover stands
still the children sing

who will be your plover now
that your house has fallen down?

who will lift the weight from your ankles,
offer the reflection of the waters
for your mouth to taste–
pose as your own true form
wading in the moonlight?

and John from your childhood
is hoisting up the hill with a fella
who looks a lot like Beckett
but not the writer guy but the one
who was your first football coach

Esmerelda is teaching the Humpback
whale how to French kiss and he’s singing
will you lie with me under the tree
where money grows but it doesn’t matter

nor the outstretched limbs of mendicants
wrestling each other down in the shadows
and stroll with me like love’s big feet
neither in the lead nor following

where nothing of value can be held
put in a jar or labeled, as free as
mahogany horsepaddling the Atlantic
just floating now between calliope chords
of clouds and home’s mindless whistle

looking up at the polka dot rain
when someone shouts they’ve stolen

St. Mary’s bells and it was clear to me
that I too was obsessed with the beauty
of this world until I had consumed so much
that there was nothing left but me on my knees

begging please please praise the fishes praise
the big toe praise the arches praise the corn
praise the wart praise the beanpole praise
the sprout praise Whitman for his praising
catalogs praise JC Penney praise WC Fields

when you exclaimed Enough is Enough,
would you kindly return my left leg?
and with a shrug I replied Oh come on baby
I’ll make you a sandwich. I’ll make it good.

like when we looked at each other across fields
of white vidalias, feeling the bloom of bloodred
tomatoes, hot tears crying in our veins, getting
hotter as we ducked and hid from the farmer’s
dogs and bullets and mooed our way to

where death is just a blouse
with one last button to undo

but you just turned and flicked your ash
and hobbled away like the world on one stilt–
the bells keep on rollin’ down the hill,
the children keep on singin’

you may hear the call once or twice surely
run naked as the inside of a shell
trying to catch the sea’s grand opening finale
really, it’s nothing so dramatic–
we come, we go, we imagine.

Now imagine this:

the streetcleaners have arrived.
only no one is there ‘cept Mr. Eliot
who could be your first grade teacher
the butcher, the preacher or anyone

walking his yellow cat
all alone in the fog