I want to consummate
something
not exactly what was
in my dream
but from a like landscape
Sunlight pouring
through my pores
In my mind I make the whole
into a paradise
a brief stint in the grasses
by the water
In our minds we encounter visions that elude us
by daylight
*
We were reading poetry
you and I
in my dream
or perhaps philosophy
A tattered chapbook
or that slim volume
wherein the Frenchman writes
“Man is nothing but what he makes of himself.”
You see how the great pipe-smoker
comes back to me now
But that afternoon
by the mosaics museum
is memory, not dream
sensation
the slim red-orange volume
and the open picnic basket
wine from Dixie cups
to lips
*
One cannot make a memory consummate:
It is what it was (is and will be)
This experiment involves the edge
of what’s to come
as in
I think of a playful poke to your ribs
then I playfully poke your ribs
That
minus the narration
There is a field
a breeze, a grassy patch
simple things
cross-legged and full of leisure
beneath the tree’s
shade
we sit together
chasing our flickering thoughts
discussing our opinions of contemporaries
their devices
their failures
*
You, forever with your theories
about time
and its non-existence
How is it that I can call out to you from here?
Let us consummate
in the nether regions
of these whispers
for it is possible this is all our natures desire
To the park then!
this very moment
for the sun beckons us
or so we imagine
