-- after a song by Beck --
Traffic. Endless cares.
The world and its affairs.
But when the day is born,
there’s nothing yet to mourn.
Mother lay in bed.
What was it that she said?
“Listen to those bells!
They ring from someplace else!
Though life is as it seems,
there’s mystery in dreams!”
From Timbuktoo to Rome
the day spun out its poem,
gathered in its arms
the world and its alarms,
its rust, its push and shove,
its half-requited love.
Dying in her bed.
Just what was it she said?
“You see, my pretty fawn,
the world turns on and on.
Plunge scissors through this screen.
My naked soul, come clean!”
The angels came to bless
this life, this soiled dress.
Mother closed her eyes,
abandoned her disguise.
And when the day was gone –
the curtain slowly drawn
on vanity and chrome –
the world became its poem.