Radical Revolution: Step Eleven
Make a pig a cow.
Turn water into stories and orchids.
Bring the children to the mountain
and make them sing.
Believe what cannot be built.
Forever is longer than you have.
Count your feelings to the moon.
Leave the last hummingbird in the thistle.
Deport the calendars of the empty rich.
All the moss will be your bed.
America will turn into snow
and you will not be able to see your street
from your window.
Eat something you have saved.
Save something you can eat.
Make sure the seeds are as protected
as the gold. Break the banks
with bread. Imagine all the lines and blueprints
disorganized and lost to their centers
and their expected order.
Tell someone you are lost too;
do it over and over until, like last night,
the shining crescent cups
a billion flights: you are here and you
are there. Believe you can believe
and kick the pirates out
until they have nothing but their hearts
on the plate of hunger and of love.
Make a forest a clean winnowing harvest
as it is, doing nothing to disturb
the minutes of its wind and the turn
of its breath to the moon. Ah
the moon again.
Take a minute, in the snow,
to locate that light. The revolution
has never been gone.
You are standing on it.
It turns in you, under a wheel of dreams
through the tumble in the rivers of vacuums,
galaxies and the first nebula
of the primary star.
Your mother is there
and your twin. Carry the signs
of revolution as if it never stops
because it never does.
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