And the dream is but the dust…

And the dream is but the dust, crawling
Behind the roaring motorcycle
I was blind into the name I will write again
Silently into immortal, unbreakable, ugly fame.
Silently my people weave ropes for the hanging
For the weeping in mid-May madness
That recalls one shame:
There is the quietness of revolt that I feel
At every stone that hurts my moaning
Why must you god of Godless things
Be hollowed with august name to name nothing
Sit in that limb that carries the brand and bonding
These sinews of summer into secret something?
Why must we people bound to the metaphor
That unmoving, empty promising form
That moves from office in seamless norm and forlorn
To travel seas and link mind and state
For a promise to satiate our recuperating thirst
And the dream, my dream is but the dust
Mobile and moving like some maddened song
Kiss the hotness of faceless afternoons
Trying to piece the morals of a ribald tone
If I will wait for the pregnant rain
Will I see dusty power lost in your lust again?