what direction's left after the wind stops blowing?
where can I disguise these bloodshot eyes?
countless broken pieces lay scattered in my mind
ripe jagged edges left untied.
broken glass cups hold no wine,
pouring out meaningless seeds of dreams
once imagined to be imagined,
but no wine is not sweet,
and these empty seeds go unneeded
photographs of faceless people
block the will to picture someone else,
yet if somehow a smile could manifest,
the heart might remember
warm again to the sweet image
at times saliva drips like blood
dotted with specks of brainwashed truths,
other times the tongue steadies,
breath and thoughts devoid of will
contradiction and nihilism are poisoning my food
other’s thoughts become forgettable and nude,
and their happy words lay tangled in the air
laughing, gasping then ending nowhere, just nowhere
some white tower calls in the distance
birds and dreams nesting there,
yellow sands with no rocks surround its ocean of honey
while truth ripens from trees longing to be tasted somewhere
then I picture myself as a leaf being tossed about in this garden
with nowhere in particular to go,
only songs promising happiness can be heard
being sung sweetly soft ever so low
and I raise out my grateful hands to feel
or hold or even wish another to be there,
but alas I no longer believe in wishes
so my hands clench fistfuls of polluted air
Paterson
1966