The dream was of the mind finding the words in the world around you and putting them together.
No reason to show your hand.
The words dwell in the fingertips,
at their ends, in whorls.
I have a dream I am dreaming again. The air is crisp, sleep full of rain, the sea somewhere
near the sky’s edge.
I am dreaming again. You are the only part of any dream that ever comes true when I need
to breathe, slide into your skin and come out with sleep covering the sound of the sea off Mazatlan,
dreaming like a burro or a lost dog. There was an end to what had to be carried, a corner to rest.
Maybe this is a dream of death. Or it may be the mule my father saw himself as
when he recalled childhood
was tied to the dog’s tail. How would you know, so accustomed to the void . . .
tongueless, mindless, loveless, astonished by the simplest dreams and startled by touch:
I go back to seeing. The dwelling down the path is so small a dog could hardly live, but does,
where the impoverished man and woman live with their unfortunate child who may never care
where origins are, it is the scene two eyes take in that make the garbage heap
outside Mexico City
seem to glow
when you must live where
there is no other
(5 January 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander