The Rolling Sage At Dusk Poem by James Murdock

The rolling sage at dusk, and the rolling dusk
did slide the brown-tinned house, face-onward,
did pull all the soft fields unto speckled star-light
and all the chinaberry trees sideways wisped by
Everything collected was a drip-dropping fruit pulp
The beloved hounds ran like mad coyotes into the sky,
and there they perched up and howled forever, as one
My rugged face was a-Dali-dripping down—
never down, but always pulling forward, from in-front
The whole farm—the lost lot—was a boat, sailing
The vociferous town was talking of having no port
Some people's souls there were ageless, but aged
Destitute angels were holding homeward candles for them
Every slippery timeless day was a ludic dance abroad
Those blind circles in the sky were hypnotic tokens
Never thinking, we were resting on their graveyard faces,
and when the grackles were flying beyond, they were not
I was riding my bicycle more, up on the trees to nowhere
below I would slip down with my face in the grasses
I tried to catch the vase as it sideward slipped and fell,
but my hands had decided that simply sliding was right
The window was slanted when I saw the rolling sage;
my eyes were not my eyes but grasses growing quiet
All the things were shuffled silently to placeless places
and the talking town was gone, but trees spoke,
then broke and too were sunk down in the sage