recalibrate

recalibrate

Recalibrate with me, 

so rain is rushing up in liquid beams

while people pad across the wrinkled sea

and sink in hills of grass. Dream that dreams

are understood 

as clearly as a mother’s touch, 

and good

and love and truth are much 

too absolute to discuss 

with any level of controversy. Let’s lie to sleep 

on beds of paradox, at ease

to rest between the sheets

of sorrow-joy and other boths, and let us nod,

acknowledging that a curvy bass-line
in a blue-light bar can be the voice of god
on Thursday nights.