Past the pits where the asphalt
flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is
measured and slow
And watch where the chalk-white
arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk
ends.
—Shel Silverstein
I don't know,
Silverstein—mostly it seems,
hours after I've dreamed them,
my desires, hopes, and
fears are still sleeping
measured and slowly in tight
neighborhood flowerbeds, while I
blow right by them
distracted and daily
on these neverending conveyor
belts of milk gray concrete.
My mind might be
an intergalactic band
of time-traveling space aliens;
my body, perhaps
a harmonized tangle
of vibrating proto-conscious superclusters—
but in any case, everyone in here's just
fissuring on
in his limitless way
to someplace definitive,
allowable,
uninteresting.
