~ after “Flower Woman with Soft Piano,” Salvador Dali (1969)
If I could roll up my soul, bolt
of blue cloth under an arm; fallen
drape that crumples up then ends
in music— perhaps finally I’d
understand what it means to say
And time stood still. I can’t
remember when last my head erupted
in flowers, when a dream of ice
descended from the skies in foliate
shapes before melting and warming
into streams. Every day, it’s work
to try and widen the ledge on which
I stand. Every day, it’s work
to couple one hook to its eye, one
car to another, then send it off
in the right direction. I would like
to be unshackled from here, to lope
like a thing with young, supple legs
into a field without grids, even
without the accompaniment of music.