Sleeping in the Hammock
One could mention the moon
Hung like a party favor above the black trees,
Or the horses laved in breezes,
Lost in reveries among the shadows.
A human life doesn’t last long.
A few significant celebrations,
Then old age and gone.
Where nobody knows, not even God or Buddha
And the sun rolls its yellow wheel across the sky
To sink, a red stone, into the horizon.
It has always been so, hasn’t it?
Even the philosophies of the young touch on the matter;
You’ll remember the philosophies of the young
Spent on summer porches, among the green of gardens.
A cup of tea is a world in itself,
And the spine curved in the hammock is not so different
from the snailed spine of a fetus,
Forehead nestled into its supplicant knees.