Seahorses' Eyes
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A Story
      What will you take with you?
What will you take with you
as you leave this earth,
this glorious blue planet swirling in space?
What will you take with you
when you go?

The hands on my desk clock
point to six in the evening.
Will you take time?
Will you take the memory of this moment,
the memory of every moment,
with you?

Lily Poo, still a puppy,
shows no interest in poetry or metaphysics,
as she gnaws on a bone on my favorite rug
and looks to me for directions,
whirling her piebald tail like a helicopter.
Will you take the love I feel
for this impish dachshund with you?
The love I feel for my friends and family?

Will you take the nocturnes
of Chopin? The wind in spring
leafing trees outside my window?
The lovely days of May,
the dancing butterflies in my Mother's garden;
the scent of pine trees;
October's return
and November transformations?

Will you take my anticipation
as I wait for the woman I love to return home,
after teaching immigrant children all day
to speak and write a new language?

Will you take this glass of red wine,
the taste in my mouth,
the grape, the earth, the sun, the soil, the rain?
Will you take this,
all that I see and feel and think
and all that I hold close to my heart?
Will you take me with you?
Round and round goes the moon
for William Hageman

It was late in November,
as they well remember,
that I was born in the early morn.

Or so they tell me,
and who I am to disagree?

To be born, what does it mean?
To die, what does it mean?
Books, proverbs, religions:
just shadows we peer through;
a ghost in the curve of our eyes;
and in the distance everywhere,
just before a screeching halt,
a STOP sign, a wall, a mirror
splintered into a thousand images.

This moonlight tour—glitter,
flash and novelty—arranged
for you
Eye lashes won't protect you,
nor another city, another tour,
however much you're worth
or whose bare legs
you reach to move upward.
Round and round goes the moon.
Hang on tight or leap into the void?
An umbrella or a sword?
A romp through time.
Adam to the atom. Servants to our past.
We laugh when the Emperor laughs.

The halls of knowledge won't admit us.
A pure heart like pure poetry eludes us.
Tangled in speech and impure genetics,
like birds
caught in protective netting,
we go round and round with the moon.

You can't make sense of it
it doesn't make sense.

We fall spiraling into our own dream.

to the land of Youkali.
listen to the trees,"
a spiritual master told her daughters,
just before she passed.
"Listen to the trees. Talk to the flowers.
Float with the clouds.
Know that you are loved
whoever you are,
and dance your destiny,
dance your life in its wholeness.
Remember who you are."
    Let the story begin, out of our dreams
comes the world