In the World of Peter Pans Where Neither Child nor Dream Are Let to Live and Grow

 

Both the powers that be
and one’s own little self,
buried, fading—
somewhere down and deep—

know the secret:

how our homes
mirror and impress back
our own unsettled selves,
which architecture builds,

whether or not that craft
still merits
its venerable name.

So what inward-outward dwelling
can money buy—

and with whom to share it,
lest one forget—

to match our ego,
or Freud’s grossest Id,
or even the Atman,

our divine immortal self—

where its address ought to be,
and how little or how much of it—

dream or ideal,
if still kept alive—

can be afforded
without being ruined?

But as for me,
it all comes down to a view:

to what view of beauty
and consonance

one’s home and self
offer and invite,

so that what or who one is
does not become—

neither oppression,
nor the empty mouth
of a miserable tomb,

but a gentle calm
and welcome—

to the soul’s
upward-streaming rise.