there rising from some pit of consciousness;
some song of self,
the notes of which were ascending images and impressions:
i must be screaming, i must be dreaming.
For if we climb one upon the other,
be a ladder of hope and help,
we perhaps would crawl out of this pit
we stepped into.
i saw your nose last night and
the worlds i remember poised upon its shape.
Those memories keep themselves warm in my chest
and make me hungry:
hungry for the kind of love that makes you shiver,
and bunch your knees up
and turns your toes inward and curls them.
i saw your smile at this communication
and obscure jokes passed between
and so too the thrill of recognition.
i hope you eat an apple today
and have a delicious bath
or hot, hot shower
and a conversation that brings to light
a bit more of our immortal soul
our everlasting inner life.
i hope i heard you say "i hope you sing a song."
i dreamt that we were talking
i dreamt that you were telling me some intrinsic truth.
i dreamt that if we had made love
that we would’ve released the hounds of hell.
i walked home from the longest night of ninety-eight,
the moon and its star this morning were as some decoration
upon some goddess or other,
i sat upon a grassy uprooted tree stump
and watched its tree burn
and I fell into myself,
into my foolish self,
and knew that it was alright.
The dawn was an abalone's inner shell,
the sun was a jewel.
i saw the land,
valleys with lakes of mist -
mist fjords, solid enough perhaps to walk across.
i drank mulled wine and spoke of fairytales.
i can see the sun now from its reflection upon the leaves
warming the tops of things as it begins its southward curl.
Spring is heralded through the sap of a budding peach tree
and a growing pumpkin.
This bed faces the dawn
This dew hides or drowns.