perhaps birds
never see the sky
just as schools of fish never see
the water.
earthworms don't see the dirt
that they eat
maggots don't see the waste
that they ingest,

and people don't really see the world
that they have made.
they suffer sad anxiety all the time
and bleed from the sharp points of their dreams

when the night sighs
in the melancholy rain.
damp and mist pass through the door lock
until every inch of longing is an inch of mold.

for a while when we die, mail piles up
outside our door and we are fed on the bones
of dead language.  even if we really believe
that our lives will conclude in a glorious reunion,

the odds are probably against it.
the wind will provide
shadows, mirrors, and abandoned cars,
all dripping through the fog of memory

like rain in the noon of night
on a gray sign over a gate:

The Cafe of the Lost in Time