Passing

When the Gods have choked final fables,
the silver horned angel has stretched all her freckles
as harsh dots or minor suns,
when the dragons have retaken Wales in birth,
and the Bucca pipes lungs under light
then breathes the smoke of oblivion
in the face of a small Cornish boy,  
I will rewake without respinning
strings of hearts that grew white then green,
the night will eat itself alone and cum
quickly into the curl
of a dawn whose hair's last name is Poly,
Carbonate or Ester or Cystic or Styrene,
I don't remember.
I will repopulate birds
free of over factory farmed disease,
free of electric lights
and electric cars
and the electricity
caused between two people
where one provides the energy,
and the other uses the torch,
I will make a potato clock
for those who forgot the potato clock,
I will make a miracle
from the ocean depths of agony,
fifty two hours, back to back,
right side out, wrong way round,
that's the face of tired I tasted,
I wonder what the taste of tired is to Gaia,
is to the Ocean, is to the Moon,
who dance their waltz' into the furthermore,
the furthermore strumming
songs we won't know,
herds of mothers
beating feet
reunited with us
as ancestors or notions,
I will be the notion
of a violent king,
the notion of enough
and childhood,
and landscapes covered
in the kisses of mist,
I will be covered
in the kisses of mist
and this shift,
this transformation
that has been long and arduous,
will become the stuff
of testamental myth,  
will matter so little
it barely mattered at all.