All is translation, carried across, the metaphor of
being. Being here, I am translated there. Where?
Only the shadow knows. The words speak for each
other and themselves. They tumble in their sphere,
happily clunking into and through each other. Hue
beyond spectrum spreads to sound and heat. Who
could doubt the veracity of such tangibly felt reality?
Not, in the dream, I, who am fully there living sweet
rounds that seem so perfectly whole I could spend
life here. Nothing conjures any outside I could know
beyond the curved boundaries of this floating world.
Intuition and instinct, the play of crimson and purple,
these weave a web through skeins of dream fabric
from which I fabricate poems as the dream wheel turns.
Dream so solid, how does it dissolve into instant
frayed fragments, an image waning, voice trailing
off. Time collapsed offers multiple spheres, entries
along the path between past, present, possible futures.
Interjections interrupt the trail we conceive as real:
the present as gift, as presence, as the only possible
way through, way in. Memories weigh in as if
they too were real. Futures impinge as if secure.
Skipping stones across the pond. Skipping ropes
that pull us to other dimensions beyond the known.
Change is certainly upon us, streaming in several parts
across the great divide, between here and here and over.