I woke through the night
with the dream
that the universe
bent to the will of the powerful
and all their
wars and rumors of war;
machines and gears and so forth
and the will to dominate.
In which my little life
bows to accommodate
and so does yours.
Eye contact and rough edges
are not allowed; everything is
sleek and shiny and sure.
What a horrible dream,
a nightmare certainly
for the birds upon my roof.
They are hopelessly unorganized,
I’ve never
watched them march
in single file
and I’m pretty sure
they don’t care about
who’s in charge
on any given day,
which might make them
(the birds, I mean)
and their friends the trees,
and also the lilies and the mountains,
and surely all manner of wildness
kind of actually in charge of this world
in a way. Because they don’t care,
not even a little bit,
about the ranters and the ravers
on my sleek little screen.
They’re free of all that,
and will continue tomorrow
to testify
to a different kind
of king.