poems are like dreams
taking from our past,
when we awake, they vanish
erasing coded messages of our future
dreaming poems, our mind assumes
its ancient other shape
showing all the world in alien coherence
all the rays of light bend
to blinding white
poems about dreams cause us dreams;
dream us.
then your white hand
across my forehead,so cool
splits the brilliant light
to a rainbow, beating
dreams and poems and the world
so obvious, so mysterious
a fragrance from that wider world
to which we flee when our seed
bursts its shell in the dark earth