The dolphins came out of the sea,
And from the corners of the eyes of giants who lay weeping and unconscious across the lazy heavens.
It rained dolphins, their bodies as smooth as dogwood blooms.
They smiled as they fell, they were fog, they were everywhere.
In those times, you could put the sun where you pleased--
It could rise in the south,
I live in a paper house which is always on fire,
I keep dying until it bores me;
I lie down on the smoke like a cat in a streetside window,
And the disused milk chute with the rusty catch holds the stupidities I cherish most.
Now they say,
Dolphins are really birds--
The sun is nailed up like a tin sign on an empty barn,
And no one is coming to save you,
To kiss you,
Or even to bury you.
The dogwoods are dead and the sea floor has fallen in,
Revealing God in the magma,
Chinamen in the paddies,
Like a feather into the flames.