Darkness, giving us dream's black unity.
Images in procession start to flow
among the river-currents down the years of judgment
and past the cities to another world.
There are flat places. After the waterfall
arched like the torso of love, after the voice
singing behind the waterfall, after the water
lying like a lover on the heart,
there is defeat.
And moving through our spirit in the night
memories of these places.
Not ritual, not nostalgia, but our cries,
the axe at the heart, continual rebirth,
the crying of our raw desire,
young. O many-memoried America!
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