We dream without memory, in such a way that the dream of any particular night is no doubt a fragment of a response to an immemorial dying, barred by desire’s repetitiousness. There is no stop, there is no interval between dreaming and waking Maurice Blanchot
When the sun goes down the roses fling off their red dresses and put on their black dresses the wind is coming over the sandy streets of the town called moonlight with his long arms with his silver mouth his hands humorous at first then serious then crazy touching their faces their dark petals until they begin rising and falling: the honeyed seizures. All day they have been busy being roses gazing responsible over the sand into the sky into the blue ocean so now why not a little comfort a little rippling pleasure.
You there, puddled in lamplight at your midnight desk— you there, rewriting nature so anyone can understand it—
what will you say about the roses— their sighing, their tossing— and the want of the heart, and the trill of the heart, and the burning mouth of the wind?
The trees have become suddenly very happy it is the rain it is the quick white summer rain the trees are in motion under it they are swinging back and forth they are tossing the heavy blossoms of their heads they are twisting their shoulders even their feet chained to the ground feel good thin and gleaming nobody can prove it but any fool can feel it they are full of electricity now and the shine isn’t just pennies it pours out from the deepest den oh pretty trees patient deep-planted may you have many such days flinging your bodies in silver circles shaking your heads over the swamps and the pastures rimming the fields and the long roads hurrying by
Have you noticed? how the rain falls soft as the fall of moccasins. Have you noticed? how the immense circles still, stubbornly, after a hundred years, mark the grass where the rich droppings from the roaring bulls fell to the earth as the herd stood day after day, moon after moon in their tribal circle, outwaiting the packs of yellow-eyed wolves that are also have you noticed? gone now. 7 Once only, and then in a dream, I watched while, secretly and with the tenderness of any caring woman, a cow gave birth to a red calf, tongued him dry and nursed him in a warm corner of the clear night in the fragrant grass in the wild domains of the prairie spring, and I asked them, in my dream I knelt down and asked them to make room for me