The Forgiveness of Willows
When you blend your perspective, blue
or brown into a thousand overlooks
full of sound, contrasting nobody
against white sky tornados, you get
a sense of place exploding from underground.
You do not have to believe the earth knows
its pressure; you can feel it in your dreams
when your face hides inside a train station
where God once sold blue and brown eyes
for souvenirs to unsuspecting tourists. If I could
grant you one wish, I would wave my hand across
the sky, shoo the devil out of the way with his costly
expressions of lost desires, and say, you now own
one grain of sand, precious like breath rising from
your lungs across unseen space below your dreams.
Make a wish. The grain of sand belongs to you.
Come to the edge. Stand beside me. Ask yourself why
the forgiveness of willows runs so close to the stream.