Laurie Saurborn Young
Much happens every day until it disappears.
I dream I am the sound of a hand
pulling a bell. Get me to the water
Nietzsche said, but every
one thought it a joke.
No stars staring out the window—
just desert-locked me.
Who cannot tell if rain sinks
ecstatic or laments drawing
down the rabbit’s nose.
Much happens every
day and then it disappears.
Poor laugh, poor
man. All week the leaves
pray to a deciduous
god until I dream
I am the sound of a bell
pulling a bell.