when peace of mind
(like an angel's tread)
goes fluttering by
(like the morning mist)
and orchid blossoms
on marble stone
(purple and orange,
wet
with sea foam)

is gone, with all
the rush of days:
yellow buses
in a smoggy haze,
a calling lost to pencils,
a world lost to maps;
just whose idea
was this?
what kind of rose
entraps?

all there is to do
is step across
the chasm, its height
threatening loss,
the horizon stretching out,
torn pages floating by
(like incandescent wings
of a dragonfly)

and now, a flash
of desert sand,
a long blue skirt,
a small soft hand,
endless weeds,
a smile and a please,
long loud days -
what is peace?