Dream Song 89

His Toy, His Dream, His Rest (1969)

Op. posth. no. 12

In a blue series towards his sleepy eyesthey slid like wonder, women tall & small,of every shape & size,in many languages to lisp ‘We do’to Henry almost waking. What is the night at all,his closed eyes beckon you.

In the Marriage of the Dead, a new routine,he gasped his crowded vows past lids shut tightand a-many rings fumbled on.His coffin like Grand Central to the brimfilled up & emptied with the lapse of light.Which one will waken him?

O she must startle like a fallen gown,content with speech like an old sacramentin deaf ears lying down,blazing through darkness till he feels the cold& blindness of his hopeless tenementwhile his black arms unfold.

His Toy, His Dream, His Rest (1969)