The Man with the Blue Guitar XXXIII

That generation’s dream, aviled

In the mud, in Monday’s dirty light.

That’s it, the only dream they knew,

Time in its final block, not time

To come, a wrangling of two dreams.

Here is the bread of time to come,

Here is its actual stone. The bread

Will be our bread, the stone will be

Our bed and we shall sleep by night.

We shall forget by day, except

The moments when we choose to play

The imagined pine, the imagined jay.