The Bed of the World

The great bed of the world

arching over graves

over Babi Yar

with its multitude of bones,

with battalions of screams

frozen in a concrete glacier,

with pillows of earth

and comforters of green grass

covering all that dead flesh.



Dead flesh shall live again-

a dream in god's endless night-

rise green out of the earth

as grass, as trees, as tomato stalks

bearing a bright red fruit

and the feuds of man-and womankind

shall be fed again from the same seeds:

the tomato, the mythic pomegranate, the biblical apple

all rising from the grass that springs

out of the screams of stopped mouths.



Sometimes I dream

that my bed is built over a ravine,

the ravine of Babi Yar, any ravine

where thousands died

and I moan in pleasure to propitiate the earth,

to make fruit ripen

and trees wave green leaves like banners

all because love can touch me still.



It is never enough to create.

The beast must feed its meat teeth too.

Out of the screaming mouth of earth

we feed the grass that covers

all our beds.



I wish I did not know all that I know.

Galaxies spin, grass grows, and people kill.

We are the only race to murder for our dreams-

and not for hunger,

hungering for dreams