Wherever there are worlds where I belong
I am ready to go.
To lie down on the mountain
and travel its paths through the laurel of sleep —

Lying there,
where underground the veins of water meet
and birds and turtle come to die,
I had a dream . . .

. . . And I was wooden lace.
And I was waiting.
And I was Man pregnant
with thought about to give birth to a dream.
And I was rushing through the veins of God
like the wind, gone mad —

I saw the spirit of Beauty sex-bought at Banks.
I touched pain in the beds of painless sleep.
I smelled the sweet perfumes of waste not wasted.
I tasted jealous rage from the spoons of joy.
Heard roses crying death
from their cars —

How does a tree kneel
when it is ready to pray?

Like the echoes of the first man
off mountains we can no longer see,
the wind carries our thoughts,
like secrets, to the ears of God.
And hidden inside
we are as easily seen
as it is easy to open a book,
as public
as the portrait of a great king.

Knowing this, I awake on the breast of the mountain.
Gathering milk from a spring.
Collecting my past
from the bones of animals
that have come to say their last prayers
at the feet of rock.
At the altar of a dream.

This mountain.
This water.

This sacred place!