And I lay down in mirth
like a bed. Later I stood
surveying the good
and the spreading earth.
Then the woods were alive
with invisible birds
and it was good, good.
I stood at my birth
and was wishing the dead
could still hear the music I heard.
Then I pictured the dead
in their cold earthen beds
and the sound of them rose.
And the woods were alive.
And I lay down in mirth
in the grass, in the dirt
and the dead in their earths
raised their voices in song.
The invisible birds
sang along, sang along, sang along,
and it was good, good.
Bag of Anything 