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Buckets In My Dreams
GC (fall '72 / live on on the alfonsina storni side of florida)

Buckets In My Dreams

Poem By gregory collins

'i had a lover's quarrel with the world'

epitaph of Robert Frost


Last night, above a child's bed. In the darkness,
that has all the knowledge. I played catch with

Robert Frost for as long as eternity is. Discussing
the mountain springs of poetry, the blood clot in the

lungs of worms and leaves, the fact that four Pulitzers
could not resurrect John F. Kennedy, and topics ranging

from psychology, to last year's human rights. From
the flute holes in thunder the lightning breathes into,

to the heart's flag at sunset; beside a cup full of
cricket songs that hug and snuggle us to sleep.

We even read at least a dozen foreign newspapers
because of my expressed love of alcohol: The

wallboards of destiny gradually increasing in
overgrazing herds. Our correspondence the visions

of a god rigid with denials, without knowing the
possibilities of loneliness or the terrible cutting of flowers



and the night drank from my eyes as the stars ripped
my reflection from the mirror. They want to be there

like the only questions that have no answers. Like
some of the strange requests from Robert Frost

beneath the moon. Observing the populations of
trash and that is the houses of the very rich. My dreams

needing a savior like the rug below an army of grinning
graves. The clouds a living room for the dead, as the

rain in the windows of my soul, are like buckets of
water in old books made out of leaves of gold. So

remember how we get that gold. When my soul
and i fight over one of your tears. When a breeze

is perhaps just of my memory's reach. Because
whoever can rip this poem in half and not even

flinch, knows the angels regard us with a bored
and cynical look. They are laughing at death like

any reasonably drunk Irishman. They are reminding
me that the sweat along the upper lip of the moon,

sizzles on the stones and i swear to be faithful, and
have no part of the world of money. No sudden gust

of wind leaving the man to himself. The man that fell silent:
The one who lived through destruction and fissured light.

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