STRUCK BY THOUGHT
dreamed by Chris Wayan (each verse is a short dream; 1956-82); poem, 83/9/12.
"One wing can't fly; but even two wings need a heart" --Pogo
Dreams are blunt! My longings slap my face.|
The warm touch of mind to mine,
Or an animal body's ease--and then
The old ache and groan of
Overbrained bipedal beasts
Burdened beyond our bearing.
I was a wildhorse, swooping free.|
Red desert dust-plumes waved
At the sweet trumpet sun--
And then guilt reined!
Who'll we trample if we run?
We're seals. Lie heaped in domes|
On the moon! Rookeries on
Air-beaches, in the old dust sea.
In low-gravity mid-ballet, we
Fluid seals are struck
Earth-awkward by thought.
Then I was an angel, but no dove--|
Hawk, banded, talon-sharp
Perched on the shag-shoulder
Of my greenmaned lion love.
Who were those Morlocks
Rumbling in dread deep? We
Feared, but dove in dark--
Then I was an Ythrian, a winged sphinx |
Lonely in a world of flightless Men.
Yet... to ride the air! Would be
Near-worth an outcast's pain.
But in that life I never flew: instead
I hobbled roads, encased!
Lead armor for the alpha-spitting waste
Their industry injected in the world's sore vein.
Then I was a girl bluefeathered,|
Quasiprincess of our breed.
We land to rest in a human coastal town
Along our flyway every fall and spring.
But windowleaping worries them,
So we creep their stair.
I try to squeeze--too wide my wing--
Still, as the horse- and seal-dreams pointed out, it's not all others; a prodigy's early-flowering conscience can also weigh a child down, crush the innocent beast. Me, at least.
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