You have a bad dream and in it the rich
are being killed, trussed up in bales
of bones. Looking at your clothes (are you
raggedy enough to spare?) you want
to run but can’t. Up close the bales
of them are flesh-flagged, bloody:
punishment too much enough for having
stylish curve on sandal heel and cut flowers.
They just want somebody to kill.
The city is burning, and even the truly poor
are running, but you are standing still.
Far better than the dingy deep to which
the flesh resigns are upright traps
or boards where feet pace out
the private woes the world designs.
At least in clothes or closets we may dream
or simply breathe or merely be the subjects
of desire. But where we go beds are so tight
and neat, to say we sleep there is a lie.
It’s no small feat to live inside a tomb
three days or, locked a lifetime in this case,
to love, to dance and sing, and still to die.