From Whence the Angels Sing

Deep in a narrow canyon bed
my body lies, bruised and broken.
At first in the dream, I think I am
among friends, colleagues, kindred spirits,
but I blink and they
are brandishing knives,
gleefully carving out designs
in this flesh I never wanted.

From high on a distant ridge,
echoes of the poets and prophets fall.
Their songs are life to me. They are
my true family. My heart
breaks that I am
not among them, that there are no poets
among these who stare deep into
my cavernous eyes, pools of
green sea mystery in the desert.

Even in the dream, I am dreaming
that one day I will walk from this place.
But for now, on my back, my eyes
are searching for the light,
and on my darkest night I see
a star shining in the East and know
one will come to raise me up and guide me
through the valleys to the canyon ridge

from whence the angels sing.