There in the meadow, he worked at a fast tempo
Breathing as he wrote,
Carbon like blood from his lips
--invisible ships--
Sailing out of the docks
Tapping veins in the rocks
And capsizing in the seven seas.
And the ink pooled on the page
As he dreamed his arms turned to stone
That children could play on
His chest a small boulder that incense was laid on
To pray for the breaths that carry the skies
And for the blurred sight of the mad and the wise.
The earth is a zen garden of rocks and men
Conceived in meditation,
Inscribed by his pen
And now a toast to both halves of the sphere
Blood and water to drink til their colors run clear.
