I dreamed I traveled upon the famous boat
That crosses the river wide as St. Johns
Before the advent of buildings and bridges
Among the multitude though numerous
Yet not crowded like rows of corn
Or passengers in a commercial jet

My fellow voyagers naked unashamed
Aged crones most of them and dry old men
No loud wails interrupted our sorrow
But such low droning lamentation
As you hear on the losing side of a competition
The knowledge of never reaching a destination

Soft complaints for the lives we had lost
Our all-too modest pleasures
Acts of self-wounding wickedness
Our exhausting disabilities
Not one of us could call to mind
The grief of those we’d left behind

One woman a red thread at her throat
Token of revolutionary violence
That took place a century ago
Had devoted her life
To hatred of the perpetrators
Only now made she her embarkation

At the stern the pilot plied a single oar
Blind and deaf silent unreacting
Eyes and ears useless after so many ages
He had grown one with his craft
A part of the machinery
A strange vessel like a converted jet

A change of scene an abrupt epilogue
Like the tale of Pharaoh’s corn and kine
Men and women slashing with blades through jungle
Viny and seemingly impenetrable
Not one of them could recollect
The grief of those whose lives they’d wrecked