I dreamed again last night
that you could walk, taking
our hikes in Wales,
fishing from the shore in Florida.
And then you were even wading out,
and suddenly walking over the waves,
like Peter,
only no longer needing
a hand of help. And then,
not just walking, but running
over the blue-green sea,
and far below, making a new reef
for the fish, and a harbor
for your ship to come in at last,
your wheelchair.
                        

Only carnies had them—hard-bitten,
cigarette-lipped, cadaverous—
and sailors and soldiers, of course. 
Back when I got drunk on shore leave
in San Diego, I’d have gotten one too,
if I hadn’t passed out. 
My lifer buddies could’ve fixed me good:
a heart bearing some name
not my wife’s,
an anchor swearing Semper Fi,
dooming me to a future of bar fights
with Marines who loved to knock off
our Dixie Cups, or with bikers, death skulls
on their skinheads.

And then it was the Age of Aquarius: Now!
on the wrist, twining rose on the ankle,
The Great Mandala, Child
of the Universe, and other such stuff.
 
Now, what is left? Zen wisdom
from a fortune cookie—Chinese
calligraphy for kung pao chicken—
Celtic armbands of wannabe warriors,
symbols of tribes or teams,
the tramp stamps of the doggie position?

And what will be left? This End Up?,
Gone But Not Forgotten?,
the multi-colored county fair
hot-air balloon of ascension,
cocoon of resurrection,
the butterflies on shrink-wrapped skin
now shriveled into Rorschach blots
open to any interpretation.