The Fountain

When I was a child I promised myself
since grown-ups had such big heads
I could never become them. Who
would want that impediment looming like some
some strange balloon unable to float or fly.

Besides, there was always something. One
could think of whatever did not count, another
act this way while being entirely surprised.
Some brought light. Some who broke the sky
into noise and dust embraced only tears and lust.

Others would be Halloween, seeming kind
yet flapping alive like bottled flies.
All that appeared was the buzz of lies, from
those who could not smile inside.
Happiness is on its way home some other time.

Now I peer out from this old skin, tired at
times with eyes dim, fatigue grown in as though
I’d forgotten that child. If you know
exactly what hasn’t been said or whispered,
you own the answer to all those questions unasked.

The games changed. The shadows no more
threaten: the prize never alters our vision.
I hold things close already gone. I choose
what welcomes these new born; refuse the dead
who turn to argument to forever destroy.

You and I here we know these things. What’s
unsaid, what merely seems to be; a wish kept
wild with breath, blessed with an apparent
coincidence which some suspect, others dare:
the hidden joy, the fierce trust of each beautiful child.

©Dean Baker

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**Dark Earth – ‘Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems…’

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©Dean Baker

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