Laurie Saurborn Young


Much happens every day until it disappears.

I dream I am the sound of a hand
pulling a bell. Get me to the water

Nietzsche said, but every
one thought it a joke.

No stars staring out the window—
just desert-locked me.
Who cannot tell if rain sinks
ecstatic or laments drawing

down the rabbit’s nose.

Much happens every
day and then it disappears.

Poor laugh, poor
man. All week the leaves

pray to a deciduous
god until I dream

I am the sound of a bell

pulling a bell.