2000 steel windows

smuggled from an opening

in a glued sky

quickly noticing

the spectacle,

a blue light emerged from underneath my feet

glancing across, confusing my eyepath

the proceedings were conducted by that ambitious wind,

always looming,

that force born to shove its victims

past any distance

(once in Hart's dream,

some tunnel emerged

where daylight

could escape to)

(and the tunnel left

the dark half of the world to ocean,

where nothing could traverse

nor climb down from the nearness

that escaped those directions

which found themselves ending

exactly where all others had just begun)

so lugging sharp notes inside my jacket,

I stumbled along,

pointed toes restraining my head

away from whatever dogma it stood for

before long,

I came to a desolate bridge

holding up traffic from all directions,

not a soul realizing the structure was really an institution,

The Legendary Flooding Gate,

for if the thing ever leaked,

the two sides would dissolve into the green abyss

I then hobbled on as uselessly as my spirit allowed,

without waking the children

who happened to be traveling with me

(no one else would dare come to this place without longing for another place to go)

but by now my pockets were so full of holes

my ears had to steady the rest of my body,

and so every 6^th or 7^th swallow,

I waved goodbye to my little

e

a

r

t

h friends…

(will they flee at nighttime

only to discover

a bit more of the multicolored search)

Postscript:

bridges can be visions,

metaphors that appear only when all other options have vanished,

or when it is perceived

those tracks which have been erected to rescue the world

are merely subjective, supposed

thus once again I pretend to better grok my world,

bridging the way to an otherwise possible moment of clarity

4/3/71

NYC