What happens when you die?
I think you’ll open at last
into the pain of oceans,
into memory and its horizon,
into music, music, music.
I can’t tell you when the lilies
will be glorious, when red flags
will be singing over the edge
There is no brotherhood of smiling wizards,
no mantra against the bells of teen spirit.
No mystery here—stones celebrate with song
how they shape the world into mountains
and waterfalls, their voices full of gracefulness
and elegance. We ought to let them dream
Want to be happier?
Welcome birds to your
vast coral bed of remembrance.
You are assured of getting
your compass of moles,
your weekly copy of available space.
Give your heart a little bit
of soul, a pivotal spin
on the altar of your mountain porch.