dormir sous un cypres

 
 
 
 
rest in skies as deep
a blue as the waters
that launched the  
Argo on its famed
journey  
 
become lost on
Kerouac's road
and regain the
virginity of
imagination  
 
how to fly
(unlike Icarus)
 
how to sing  
(unlike Nero)
 
how to capture  
words in prisons
of paper and ink  
without murder
 
thoughts jump
like fleas from  
one moment to
the next infesting
the mind with
beauty
 
sleep now beneath  
elder cypress trees:
 
alive,
 
dead,
 
or worse yet,
 
somewhere  
in
between