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

the new.

Published in Spillway 23