It Should Be

It should be the dreamt blue

But the river is brown and still.

Not moved by tide

Nor flooded by rain
 

But stopped and thick

And muddied.
 

There should be a rising moon

But the sky is dark, unfilled

Not sacred night

Nor starlight’s reign
 

But stopped and thick

And emptied.

 

 

It should be blowing through
But the air's condensed, distilled.
 

No breath supplied

Nor lungful gained
 

But stopped and hot

And sullied.

 

I should be moving too

But I cannot find the will.


Not held by pride
Nor bound by name


But stopped and thick
And buried.