The feeling is the lining of the dream.                                                    Each                day as a making &    unmaking,                        each                person loving & failing,the hope                                 each                day that having to live    in this dim                                                   country will seem betterat some point &                 each                body of each person       will have a right…                                    the little boy & ~i~walked with our lichen bag; he out-walked    the sadness of his parents, ~i~ out-walked    the facts… Feeling basically all rightis a privilege few can afford. Our neighborhood sofull of plastic crap on Xmas eve, lights upin early dusk… but there’s an appealing multiglow.Trace in the mind, Pound said…    & always the counter-thought, the dialectical    paradox in each event, history unfolding,—the neighbors had put out their tacky 50s crèche,    donkeys & sheep, plaster baby Jesus inthe plaster manger… Look at this, Baba,  Leon said, standing a long timewith his bag of lichen, unrejected & beside. Maybe the child Jesus    just felt electrical like Whitman did,  pushing what light he had out of his hands,maybe ordinary light, We just don’t know…Man of constant sorrow. There are no reportsof him laughing, except in gnostic texts.Murdered by the State for loving criminals.Where did he get the idea. Is & as…the world in all its forms—