Poem for Thursday, July 30, 2009

As for the subtitles, my German is a bit rusty, so please forgive me.

Invisible Hands

I. Letzter Nacht hat es geregnet.

The rain dots the

concrete, drop

by drop, forming

shapes and continents,

scattering the sediment.

Some invisible hands

are squeezing the clouds

like heavy sponges,

draining life down the

sink onto our earth,

our homes, into our

eager mouths, agape.

This happens through

the muggy dusk and

into the night (those

same invisible hands

have covered our

box with a magician's

black cloak). Look

outside and see the

moon from any direction;

for once, we are

the orbitees.

II. Ich will nicht meinen Traum vergessen.

My final thought

before I awoke this

morning (still streaked

with rain/life from

last night) was the

conclusion to my

peculiar dream;

let me tell you what

happened:

I was circularly pacing

in a small room somewhere

in Munich, Germany.

There was a single

window, and I would

rest my elbows on the

weathered pane and

marvel at the Alps

far, far away. The old

Bavarians would smile

with aplomb and wave

at me as they passed

by in their Lederhosen.

This is all I would do;

I felt neither hunger

nor apathy, but I

could not leave my

small room.

III. Es deckt nicht und alles auf.

The rain evaporates

with the heat,

seeping beneath the

concrete's surface,

skimming past each

shiny granule. How

the sun orchestrates

this is amazing.

I am now

conscious; most

of my dream is

forgotten, fallen

between my synapses

and electrical impulses.

How the brain

orchestrates this is

amazing. What are these

rainy dreams?

Where are these places

we transcend, where

those invisible hands

decide we must traverse

to be praised

or punished?