Flowers in their shackles are born to die; Green and blind they writhe. Man strides blithe, His day increases, Barefoot among immensities. Hunchbacked in my bag of dreams, Interred in the dirty mushroom dark, A whole man crouched in a wolfing skin, I come tumbling upright from nightmare, Wild from flower-red wombs and Ozarks Of dreams that never end. Animals like men are made to dream, And run in dreaming day. Needled to day- Light I awake Aroused from sleep's sensual rut; I grow alive from grave to groomed In the mirror's terrible square: A wreath of hailstones about my neck; A smile snakes ear to ear; My eyes bone-dry asterisks are In the bright of the morning star. "Life, life rife with hours and dangers," Is the cry that aches In my throat; Am I a flower, a blind sun writhing, Or dreaming animal unconscious as teeth? I reach for immensities and powers I wore in my dreams like a coat. I arise to daybreak's damnation And I weep at the breaking light-- A fallen star among rank straw, Barefoot in my animal manger.