Early Dreams; I.

A road of wet cedar sawdust, no vehicle,
green land as grey as sky. No trees, no houses--
Four-story hills soft as sine wave. No sun,
but it is day, and I am atop the highest--
There is nothing to see, and sorrow.
From where I stand, a mummified right hand
rises up to clutch the whole of my ankle
with an angle iron grip, and I am afraid--
I struggle into an exhilaration of falling
into a lake I did not see, an escape
by sinking and not drowning, gazing up
thru water perfectly clear to one small boat
black against a sky ripened brightly into blue--
Silhouette of a man leaning out to help
ten feet above with an arm I do not rise to take,
stilled by this beauty I will never believe.