Oh continental meadow, oh light
of my youth. Can’t they make you
strung, like streamers across the
sky, where humidity can take
it’s hold of you and illuminate you.
And when lighted, will you become
real, and by a beach? Will you become
the sea at noon? Or dawn in the summer?
Oh continent, will you become the
maiden Joan, before she killed, before
she was visited by the haunting dead?
Oh sword of tongues, oh times of
days, oh water and light. Will
you become nothing and then
become something and then
will you call us by name and let
us try again?