On the weekends we dream.
We dream we are able to make the world perfect.
Go to the museum and look at pictures
that make prosaic,
bodies and lives torn apart
We believe that we can heal the world,
and ourselves.
We feel wonder at each other and tightly hold
hands, lest the perspective of the room should swallow one or other of us into a lost world.
Apart, there's a lessening of strength but together we easily become children again, bound by a secret.
This little kindling group of warmth, these children accidentally now adults
become farmers ambushed, who must defend themselves with homemade weapons.
They long to hold the sedated polar bear as though it was a toy.
Do they feel pain on the other side of the world? It is such a distance to feel pain from.
We dream of making a perfect place, that would shelter and heal and keep dreams alive.
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