Goethe’s Feather

From the deep breast of sleep to rolling eyes of sighs
There is a room in Berlin from which songs’ sing forth
sounds of flowers opening wide for passing onerous hues
of blues, like a feather falling that will once again
float tomorrow, a hurricane of color found in springtime
dancing on the head of heaven, for heaven’s made
of feathers that tickle our ears when we sleep, deep
and silent in our berlin room, our soft breaths drip
with destiny, this our future from the oldest jewel
of creation; while down below in Sion, women
carefully pat powder on their hair softly humming
as beautiful eyes open before their mirrors, as
even Goethe on his deathbed cried out,
‘mehr licht! mehr licht!’, More light, more Light!!