There is a lighthouse lost in fog on an island without name
I go there in my mind from time to time
to find the dreamer of my youth
with his incantations
and spells without regard to what imperacists
would have us think and want to believe; there was more truth
in a falling leaf caught in a breeze or the flight of crows
in those creation myths of my salmon fishing friends’ vast cold north
where ocean lies larger than life and all human struggling and strife could
be put in a little box and floated out to sea once set aflame
like a funeral pyre…I want to write love notes to God in bottles and toss them
overboard so that another part of me may find my existential nausea amusing in their
quest to be endlessly entertained behind palace walls where they all tell one another
you’re OK I’m OK til cows fly