Lover, the dream is wandering a nonsense
that I can't comprehend. I wake at four
or five in the morning, the dawn is eternal
in the East. This hypnagogic state reveals
a twist of form, a whirl of verse, a vortex
of energies. Lover, the dreams of time
are a wandering river that changes banks
and fills the gulf with life. Floating images
and flying clouds, carpets, fluid tapestries
and geometric raiment. This surreality
is a program of tropes, her breast and hair,
her arms, her breath articulates asleep
and awake. This brief dream is a light
that moves as a script in the purple heaven.
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