To sit on his hands when he could have provided
speedier transit was surely gross negligence;
but, the bumpy ride home in Marvel's cart tried
Eben's health less than Clark's patience.
Pa survived it, hurt, but intact,
and when he wakes he'll surely thank
Clark for not flying him back.

--    Hide your powers son.  (So Eben had said
      when Joe died).  Because you can't bank
      on folks having any sense.  Men fear the new,
      and you'll mystify them, so they'll fear you.
      Fight on the right side, put your might to
      good: that'll justify you in their eyes.
      Takes time, 'course, and maturity.
      I hope I'm understood?

He was: Pa's wish has prevailed since that day.
Even at the Fair.  There, Clark let caution sway him,
let Ralph guide the Eben-burdened John Ross
to the Prof., let them try to mend Pa's ribs
while he sat by in shock.  They revived him,
momentarily.  "Would've been... hundred
dollars... but that cold metal... wouldn't budge,"
said Pa of the anvil.
Ross fed him gin from a flask --
enough to kill the pain -- and Eben asked
for Sarah, slumped again, and was out cold
by when they got him to her.  She helped
her guests settle, then in her hand held his
until, by Eben's bedside, she fell asleep.
Clark slept in his room (first time in months)
and kept on his coveralls, too drained
even to fear the dream's recurrence.
So, of course, it has recurred,
and I can now tell
of the anxieties that fill
a godling's mind in unguarded moments.

                THE DREAM
        (As the dreamer dreams it)
      To the hills on the edge of town
      we go, and your locks you let down
      as I touch your tender neck
      with my eyes and nose and lips
      and brow and, as one, we fall
      onto the soft spring grass.
      I drink deeply of the air
      and of the scent of you,
      your breath and flesh and hair,
      as your hands lithely scurry
      across my back and you stare
      over my shoulder and tell me,
      each whispered puff of air
      tickling my ear, how pretty
      is the vista of the village
      below.  And so we roll
      until I can glimpse the view,
      but keep going, turning
      and tumbling over and over --
      my only vista is you.

      But... who are you?  What color
      is this hair?  Your face, obscured
      by the dream-fog, was Lana's
      when last I dreamt.  Whose tonight?

   (Dream-shift.  Hero, don't fight
    this vision new, of Dudley
    Batson calling your Fortune
    from out a crystal ball.
    Heed him, for your destiny
    he might have seen, had not rueful
    circumstances intervened.
    Caveat: This is but a dream.
    Give it no more than it is due
    that the dream-Prof. can pontificate
    just so):

--    By twice the twelfth
      English letter
      is thy fate defined.
      Bound you'll be,
      but then unfettered,
      by this one repeated sound
      akin the name of kin of Thine
      on that long deceased sphere
      whose legacy you've borne
      but shan't forever bear alone.
      Love, pure in form, looms, so prepare   
      for the coming of The One,
      she who will need no traps or snares
      and whose burdens you will share,
      she who will woo with Liberty's gun.

   (Intermission done, the curtain falls,
    the intruder sidles to the wings.
    Clark will someday recall his cryptic song,
    but now ignores it.  More familiar things
    beckon: Idyllic images are re-run
    in his head until once again
    they turn loathsome as...
                THE DREAM is re-begun):

      Our nearness melts them
      from brown into blue,
      as your eyes become my sky
      and your mouth my sun.
      Our hearts run together,
      our limbs intertwine
      and I am yours, and you are mine
      as the heat of the day
      burns away time
      until it stands as still
      as we two lie, a spent one,
      clinging to the hill
      until the day is done.

      We then get up to go
      and you request a hug.
      I comply and am by my
      own exuberance undone.

      For a few seconds I lower my guard;
      for mere seconds!  Time enough
      for enamel shards to burst and rain,
      for your blood to redly stain
      the yellow summer flowers,
      for the subcutaneous
      essence of your loveliness
      to churn to a buttery puss,
      mix with white bone-dust
      and paste your dress to the grass.
      Onto the puddle that was you
      a ladybug flutters.  I do
      nothing.  My touch is death; there was
      not time enough for one breath,
      not time enough for you to...
      for you to...
      sss...
      ss...
      s...
      sc...
      scr...
      scre...
      screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee....

No dreee...
No dre...
Open eyes... wakefulness...
and he isn't dreaming,
he really hears her (Who?) screaming.

Ma.

Clark levitates.  Behind his head
to his right he reaches with both arms,
grabs the bedpost and rotates
about its axis, careening
himself out the window
as Sarah's screams parch her throat
and raise a house-wide alarm.
At their source, the breakfast nook,
it seems Eben tried to cook
his own porridge.  Sarah slapped it
off his face -- she wanted him
to talk to her just once more --
but his jaw moved not a jot,
and she is still dragging
his sagging form from the spot
where it struck the covered porch floor
when Clark lands on a plank thereof
and, with his heel, knocks the dropped ladle
out the open wire door.  Cradling
Eben, Clark conveys him to a couch.
Ralph and Professor Marvel rush
downstairs still buttoning their shirts,
the latter a black bag in tow.
The stethoscope won't decode
the patient's last gurglings,
but the junior Kent knows
that Pa is urging him
to keep the farm and care for Ma.
He gasps because words will not come,
and such dry rasps are enough....
He is gone.

Outside, in the weedy rough,
still winds come alive, rustle up dead brush
and sweep it to homestead walls,
forming piles wherein would thrive
the lichen, were there any moisture.
But, the eye of Heaven is dry,
the mold can find no pasture.
It should look inside.  A young man strives
there now after self-definition
(what will be his life's mission?),
and to contain a teary flood.

Upon Ma's bent shoulder
Clark rests a hand.
They both have lost a kind of love
richer even than bonds of blood.