I relish the now rare states
of being held by a half sleep space… where
a companion feels no compulsion to move,
or even open her eyes. Where
our voices connect in languages
foreign to the masses
who claim to speak or talk
or write.
I thought to myself, “how light a touch
to pen such a heavy meaning
onto so fragile a parchment….”
And now I go back to sleep
with a stirring poem, softly
running its fingers through my hair,
whispering, “free me,
lest I remain a dream,
half awoken.”
He dreams in poetry.