She was here
Again last night,
She shows up
In my dreams;
She slipped her arm
In mine, held tight,
And called me
By my name.
I can't say for sure,
You know what dreams are like,
But I felt her here,
As if awake,
How I love the night.

I met this girl
Who couldn't speak,
But signed
And sighed she loved me.

I met this girl
With discerning taste,
Who held the virtue
Of human grace.

I met this girl
Who couldn't hear,
But felt me beat,
And knows my tears.

I met this girl
Who had the touch,
She wasn't one
To demand so much.

I met this girl
Who couldn't see,
Perhaps that's why
She's in love with me.

We sped along the highway,
Faster than two hundred year old clouds;
All at once a yellow blur of sunflowers
Filled the only view we had.
Fields and fields of sunflowers
Facing the south sun like a choir;
And ready for harvest.

Denise remarked she liked the seeds,
And the oil is good for pharmaceuticals, etc.
We use them a lot, I quipped.
But we were in a rush to see
Stratford's As You Like It,
So they never got a second thought.
Til now, you see,
For I'm feeling somewhat vacant.

The familiar small towns,
On the way
To Georgian Bay,
Have gone;
Box store intersections sprawl
Where General Stores once served.
It's hard to find pie and coffee,
To watch the cows come from the barn,
Or comment on the standing corn,
Of a late September morn.

I was driven to the wilderness
When a flaming sword appeared;
Then tethered like a goat,
For the demon was revealed.

I've got a mark, like Cain,
To identify me;
So I stumbled through the gulches
For a place to be free.

You told me I was naked,
I never realized;
You should fit inside my head
And see me with my eyes.

I've slept with swine,
Caroused with jackals,
Spit in the face of Him;
It was then you found me out;
Cried and mourned,
For I was never good at hiding;
And thus you found me lacking.

I want to remark
On my disease;
It's not as obvious
As a sneeze,
Or an allergy to cheese.
It's not profound
As cancer,
But will lay me in the ground.
It's worse than an itch,
Though that's part of it,
I can't stop scratching.
I look the picture of health,
You'd never know I'm sick,
Until you get a whiff.
But I am,
Bottle or can.
****... there's no pill to take,
And the cocktail doesn't work.
The worse part of all,
Those who say they love me,
Think that I'm a ****.
I'm not.
I'm sick.

When does the best come out:
A scream? A shout?
When in judgement of our friends,
Animals and sibblings;
Or teachers and politicians,
Seldom in Amen.
So often in the end.
So now, before me,
Me, with your first steps,
The same who dressed you,
Then drove you when the sun rose,
'Til the lid closed,
On many we loved best.
We have years to go,
'Til what rest
Comes out,
After so much consternation.