The Bliss of Indigo Trees

by Richard Martin

It pays to sleep in a warm room
And review poor decisions
Before nodding off
The mind in a stew of mind
Casts shadows of light
A parade of symbols marches by
There is an outside world
Of snow and romantic leeches
Doctors refuse to make house calls
The walls whisper

When I was child I folded
The narrative of my life
Into a paper airplane
It had wings of sun
And mimicked the flight of baseballs
It soared through forgetfulness
While the Cold War sold tickets
To the subconscious
Dolls spoke in tongues
And mom and dad slept alone

Once the grand canyon of love arrived
I drove my car into the drink
Or brink
I lost faith —
Cold knees shriveled
Into the dust of awakening
Eyes married form
I was silent as atoms on holiday
Until she talked of rivers of paint
And the bliss of indigo trees