Dream is a dim pool of light under closed door,
face turned backward , to the past,
to yellowed pages from another day, someone else’s life.
You look back before stepping into the mist:
a trail of vapour at the window pane a summer morning.
Does my finger on the wetness touch you?
Can I walk between the two suns
through circles of my life, an ascent
that is the opposite of a fall at the cliff of existence?
The hollow in the words, can they be filled with you?
Infuse your breath as the elastic insides
like the muscle of my mouth holding water, inflate.
Only that which exists can touch the back of my neck,
I cannot hold smoke in the cup of my palm
or memory of the moon that weighs with longing.