The Coming Andantes

you are flying on a hazy dream carpet — floating up there, above these old streets, these ancient genuflecting pines and cedars, rising above the sleeping dead on Broadway, soaring now through the white tombstones— the low walnut branches that flail like hungry cats. now the sudden rush out of death’s hand we fly, whirring by faster than blood flow in a silver sieve, in and out of the shadowed majesties far inside, these soul itchers that foretell the coming andantes, here in this perfumed dreamland with only you, as we seep through the spinning pines and cedars, the long extending blood rivers naked with stones, of venison death and fish spasms in the final sun.