BEULAH
for MRG
Beulah fell asleep this afternoon
in her sidewalk chair. Phosphor clouds
spun tacked-up overhead – caravels
unknotting archipelagoes of dreams.
Beulah is ninety. All she’s done
was finished years ago – love, kids,
work... making, helping. Now the swells
of receding seasons wester into beams
of sundown. The scramble to survive,
the ferris wheels of sex and politics,
her wrestlings with faith and doubt
are folded into one frail dormant hive
of arms, face, breast. Fleet prolix
dreams fuse with the Dreaming she’s about.
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