Where the Dreamers Dream

how many times have I watched
you speak to me in silence?

when half the world sleeps
and dreams are marbled busts
assembled on territorial borderlands
directed notably inward

the masters of culture perched
with prominent beards and chins

we are the dreams of dreamers
undecipherable words dance along
transatlantic currents deftly
caressing one day's night

one night's day
I fell into your eyes
and the ocean dived in
to rescue me

owls watched with a subdued eye
while you dried me off
with a Mediterranean breeze
thick with Aeneas's mythological memory

it was trumpeted from Ganesha's trunk
hinting of spice-filled melodies
he was worn upon your back carefully
interstitial space filling his fingers

I heard him well

the melody warmed my skin
and I harmonized with my breath

the owls took flight
and grew into condors
blotting the sun away
with bellowing hoots

in the growing shadow
I entered a vixen's den
searching for a bright moon
to reawaken the day

she gave me bright pink paint
and pointed me to the origin of dreams

from the afterglow of your eyes
a path offered me forth
along the border inroads
and a mischievous smirk met me

finding a confused bust of Karl Marx
unsure of which direction to face
the pink paint quickly covered
his skeptical bearded visage

suddenly I saw everything clearly
in its lucid illuminating shock
you grabbed me with hands wildly pink
and we ran playfully in stride

and in that moment I heard with supple clarity:
the danger of imagination
is in its truth

but the night was ours