Before
the Sun
We remember
difficult dreams
without
syntax, thought:
Each face
blond
in lustrous
skies,
each noun one
more hand
reaching out
for you.
Oh, women,
men,
what dream
do you
remember now?
The monkish
whine
is found in
porcelain,
capitals,
columns of pine.
Be careful
whom you trust.
I saw you
last night soar in
my
grammatical sky.
But when
awake,
the night is merely
slow,
the heat gets
me every time
The room
seems solid.
No milkman in
the morning now
but dogs wake
early
and I wait
for them to bark.
