Towards the Equator

In dreams we return to an acrostic evening

Its evaporating its percolating of lungs

 

Skies intentionally ambiguous

The knowing of here as disabled as conversations with hands

Full of lichen

 

On humid nights faces lemon

 

They all sit around a table at which no one will eat

Trees standing round in a ring pointing North North East

To that outdated position

 

The rising of the sun

 

Someone ought to say

Fetch a bucket of water

And we will swap and swamp all these wants

 

But it is night now and night dilates

 

This has been suggested as the ideal biological situation

Toward which everything is slowly evolving

Nobody believes a word of it

 

Nobody amid no person is nodding.

 

A coat of disbelief should be tried on: it feels lithe, unleashed, so they keep 
Whispering on and on

 

On home’s windowsills all the good wives

Are germinating great plans

 

One voice is louder than all the others calling

Come