H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

DAVID COPE

The Dharma At Last

longdead in his dream the boys leap

one by one over the cliff into the wild splash

& the singing current—the tow pulling them

down into green dark & silt where the sunken

trees fell & were pinned as well, great black

branches looming up in the murk, fish tearing

the guts of whitened & bloated corpses as

their eyes stared, marbled spheres like moons

glowing in the dark. by night, the water clears, the

shadow moon reflects off the pale carcasses—

& he is awake, panting, the moon shining

thru his midnight window. he hears the voices of

thousands singing & weeping as police line up

& swat batons swat batons swat batons & march

march march into the now-screaming singers,

their ranks breaking—the one-eyed bard chanting

for calm—the ranks all fled, he left alone to sweat on

a factory floor, in a madhouse swabbing urinals. now

the dreams are all moonlit, no destination

& yet this weary traveler sings in his passing

steps, careless in the theatre of stars where the dead

walk with him daily, nightly, old companions

urging him to rest as even days grow darker,

the news ever more ominous. he must consider

the sleek craft of his final voyages, the turns in his

last river, the song he will compose to take him

beyond his last lay to sing in dreams where

his companions fled, to learn to walk among

the living like a shadow in the daylight of

their certainties, waiting for them to leap at last.