A Lesson in Geography

A exercise in Geography

Failure of sympathy buries you

in the sand, like the material substance of

a person at the beach

in your imagination, where

the deer still draw near down to the water

to total their spontaneous cries

into the oncoming headlights

of the approaching wave of evening,

that time when your dreams race wild

dogs back into the caves in the stones

out of fright, and reverence

to the way you have feeling Baby if you don't

understand I'm sorry it's time,

and I gues I'm sorry too as

and if it's too late to provide

sand castles with

bridges across their moats. Wimps

do that, break

down

into particulate matter, like grains

of sand in the bucket

of a child who remains in chains,

The life of it is in the details,

anyway. That away lies the equator.

Sacrifice a goat when you cros

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Mar/Apr 2000

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