Originally Posted by Frownland

Another Working Dawn

The dreamer was still soaring high above an endless city.

(The whole place could go in the time it takes a struck match to
ignite.)

He found himself sad to say drowning in sight of land.

Was revealed to possess a mannequin-like pubic region, nothing
there but blank hairless flesh hallelujah.

Was entering the precise number of times children’s voices are
heard in Rimbaud,

scribbling in the margins something about a rainy doorway and,
How could I ever have been bored.

Music told me early I should be filled with joy.

The sound of someone crying woke him up and it was him–

the exceptional instrument who took very poor care of itself,

the leaf who thought it was a tree.

Lovers of words, illumination’s death-mask.

And let’s get one thing straight, they were never about.

Those lines, say, on stars:

the hell with the stars.

They were about perception of the stars.

He turned the covers back like a page that weighed ten pounds.

Book in no known tongue, book that would not exist, truly,
could he have foreseen the misery it would cause.

But I ask you voice that is nowhere and everywhere–

What did not in time become a source of suffering?

-Franz Wright