Dreams
If dreams were my fingers
and prayers dances come true,
on falling meadows I would linger
sleeping with you.
And life were a true thing,
which it is (but not soon)
I would give up my manhood
to relearn it from you.
If wind be my voice
with a tongue green as leaves,
I’d speak you no noise
harsher than breeze.
And thoughts were an oak tree,
not intellectual—but were dark—
words curl like black branches,
kisses thicken like bark.
