The Bed Of The World

The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams frozen in a concrete glacier, with pillows of earth and comforters of green grass covering all that dead flesh. Dead flesh shall live again- a dream in god's endless night- rise green out of the earth as grass, as trees, as tomato stalks bearing a bright red fruit and the feuds of man-and womankind shall be fed again from the same seeds: the tomato, the mythic pomegranate, the biblical apple all rising from the grass that springs out of the screams of stopped mouths. Sometimes I dream that my bed is built over a ravine, the ravine of Babi Yar, any ravine where thousands died and I moan in pleasure to propitiate the earth, to make fruit ripen and trees wave green leaves like banners all because love can touch me still. It is never enough to create. The beast must feed its meat teeth too. Out of the screaming mouth of earth we feed the grass that covers all our beds. I wish I did not know all that I know. Galaxies spin, grass grows, and people kill. We are the only race to murder for our dreams- and not for hunger, hungering for dreams