Apr 15
SLEEP OF THE DODO
The dodo sleeping dreaming of himself lost in his daily doings. His wife mounted in a menagerie of mogul extremes. His children born and slain for sport with nary a nod save the wind echoing an old dance tune. Funny squawks: coracoo, coracoo swept by mist into the grotto the sugar plantation. Funny beaks bobbing the swamp’s dreaming pond. Comic bodies washed up on the craggy shore. Funny bones then no more. The sun hung then bled into the clouds. God’s blood shot eyes such sad surprise. The dodo awoke and seeing them slowly closed his own again. Out of this world into the indistinct memory of a line that had forgotten itself.
From Auguries of Innocence © Patti Smiith
