Within the dreaming,
songs float by on wingèd
heels, time is an air too light
to be inhaled, vision
a fantasy of falling trees
whose leaves breathe out
a river of candles. Mind is a
toy, whose reason conjectures
theorems of desire, whose
fancy is a rose that opens
forever. In the slow, I awake
in a rush, wondering how
one may travel so far and
never leave oneself.
