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Urania
I dream of a sister with yam coloured hair
who dreams of a red-throated man,
Who dreams of the future that dreams in her gut,
That never would dream of the point of the joke.
I dream of a mother, with yam coloured hair
And blue eyes of crocodile green
Who dreams of a present wrapped up like a poem
which explodes her face like another world war.
I dream of a daughter who phones the police,
distressed by my yam coloured hair.
Who pay no attention to family disputes,
Which dance on the graves of the generous dead.
So dance on my grave, and I will dance with you,
Down, down! with her earthy brain, dreaming of life
like the points of pure light in the blue planet eyes
that sway on the tips of the yam coloured flames.
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