It is too early and too late to dream.
My sister-God braids my hair for
it has grown since the mirrors wore black.
It is too early to die, too late to be born.
I have carrots to chop, soup to cook, a child to read to.
The soup tastes weak; it is mixed with lost time.
Is it too early to tell her about war, too late not
to tell her about war? My dream-God blossoms
crucified on the cherry tree outside our kitchen window.
It is too late to say a prayer for it will become a moral.
Let her sleep while my wanderer-God spreads
misfortune like stars all over the sky’s face.
It is too late to blow up the trains.
Is it too late to celebrate?
Here is your granddaughter.
Here is the burning forest of your dead.
Here is the sun rising over the shopping mall.
Is it still not too much? It is the 21stcentury,
wanderer-God of nothing dreams:
go, press a button, tap-tap––
your keyboard awaits your magic touch.
