IN little, small pains

my body longs to sleep wounded,
the lusty dream of America
muddied by everyday experience.

the long backbone of the goddess
feeds longed for souls of optimism
into me,
opening hope and belief,
the strength to go on
over and over into the abyss.

she comforts me with words
that roll on the shore of my disappointment.
she shows and slows me
knows me to love the world too much.

her ears curl into flowers
flow with the rhythm of the waves to sea
glitters of her hair
as the moon downs her feet,
fragments of stars or old illuminations
blossom there
in the hours.

my body longs to love her
as she makes me reborn
with the sounds of her unending generosity
glowing into vivacities
of deep, knowing humor.

i suppose it's always been this way,
difficult
ambivalent
strange relationship with what is real.
sheer escapism being a blanket,
the sweet laughter of babies.

in little pains we come to know
this world is not ours.
it hurts us out of smug superiority
or silences us with scattered malice.