The white dream waits
for me to enter. The rabbit
runs through a field of nettles,
burdock bends in the wind. I follow,
find the room without walls.
No boundary, just wild weaving
in green stem and white-pin flower
along your blue shirted shoulder.
We stand there in the where –
a dream is always now and never –
while a wave in love with itself
and the chase, crests, falls
into the sea, the shore, the broken shell.
You fell fast. I didn’t hold you.
Each dream has its own dreamer –
white dream, red dream, purple, blue,
all the way down to the black,
the dark waiting
to bring up
Published in Spillway 23