elizabethlevett

So maybe now you realize

who you nearly are.

You’ve been sleeping, woke up dreaming.

You took a bath.

You stood in line.

There with all the others,

there with all of them,

with all of who you are.

You walked through the tube.

You’re sitting in your seat.

Stare out the window

with all of them, with all of us, with all of you,

merging and dissolving

and carried away.

And then there’s the liftoff.

And then there’s the rapture –

those clouds you love so much,

those things you try to touch.

Somewhere a fire’s burning out of control.

Somewhere down there, he promises her the moon.

They’re lying on the sand.

She holds his shiny heart

like sequins in her hands, now thrown away,

now blown away.

Somewhere down there birds fly over steeples.

Ragged and glorious,

they’re making holy every place

they pass with just the breath of their wings.

Somewhere down there they’re dreaming

of a lost one –

remembering a voice that struck like dawn.

And somehow they go on.

Somehow we go on.

And they stand up on their chairs,

And raise their arms and sing.

They are carried away, all of them, all of us.

And now you realize who you are.