Bend the Grass

He is not a reality, an idea
 Can thoughts bend the grass?
 ran with my stones in my pockets
 stained glass chapels in my eyes
 choirs in my heart

Saw the way the horses dug into the cobbles
 and no one touched the gold of fountains
 no one saw the wandering fingers of clouds
 Dug for bones of the earth
 and cried lyrically on viaducts
 long sundered by contrails and crossties

Woke up manifested by the flowers
 to sneeze and write
 with long runners of ink
 that flow like wheat in these fields
 under a gentle breeze