Somewhere

[silverwheel]

Old dreams are
flooding back
from the moment
of first sight
but every image
slips, like
water over my hands,
a gradual nourishment
that often turns to flood.
Enough residue is left
that I know of
a singular source hiding
every time I look:

I only hear him.
He might be a dreamreader
who cannot speak of his thoughts,
but running his fingers over my skull
he teaches me; or
the man of Saturn, a body
of dark cloud
and immense gravity
slowly pulling me into orbit,
maybe a chemical
I cannot dilute
or an imagined voice
from a desperate mind.

The mere possibility
of illusion
compels me to scream,
but to where?
the face changes,
sometimes a variant
of my own experience,
or the ghost of an uncle
calling from somewhere
I cannot approach,
as simple as a car
that used to carry me,
as large as the house
that used to shelter me,
my second womb.

It is not proof,
but affirmation,
a reminder of the angel
I knew as a child,
its home
in my failing,
a languid melody
lacking words
but imbued
with resonance.

falling in rhythm
with the river
my best description
lies somewhere
in the silence
of dawn.

 

[faithfully dangerous]

yes.