Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
home more or less by Paul Casey
for the homeless
There lies all the time in the world
in the stone of a winter doorway.
The city has its own dream,
and talks in its sleep, softly.
A low drone of summer bees
in harmony somewhere far away, vibrates
just where my sleeping bag meets the ground.
Wings ache. Have forgotten their purpose.
Rest is the only prize now.
And soon it is the dark morning.
Having only rediscovered stillness
the promise of that other world stirs
sweeping away the oh-so-close nirvana
from this womb of generous sleep.
I will return soon, soft stone
to whisper into your tired ears a blessing
for that soul I may never meet
who left this fruit and steaming tea.
There lies all the time in the world
in the stone of a winter doorway.
The city has its own dream,
and talks in its sleep, softly.
A low drone of summer bees
in harmony somewhere far away, vibrates
just where my sleeping bag meets the ground.
Wings ache. Have forgotten their purpose.
Rest is the only prize now.
And soon it is the dark morning.
Having only rediscovered stillness
the promise of that other world stirs
sweeping away the oh-so-close nirvana
from this womb of generous sleep.
I will return soon, soft stone
to whisper into your tired ears a blessing
for that soul I may never meet
who left this fruit and steaming tea.
