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My mind seems to be at peace.
Red ruby stone, and wild roses
begin to bloom on the lower
branches of the trellis. They
bloom against a dark backdrop,
but as long as they bloom in my
mind’s vision it won’t change—
roses will turn red, equality is
necessary, and the height of Mars
above the Earth’s surface is astounding—
half red, half purple.
I came to a strange town with no
property; your city—in my dreams,
I seek you, and in the centre of each
is a cut fruit. I see your house in the
distance; a woman sleeps in The Yard.
I crave structure: I heard her politely
approaching me. That was how I could
have spent my childhood there. It’s
still the only meaning. There are roses
everywhere, high mountains rise in
waves.
Look at the lamp in front of the light—
we’ve been apart too long and too badly.
You are asleep, your face full of gentle
anticipation; I have to wake you up and
remind you that it won’t happen, but
that therefore we are free, and now some
kind of weakness in me is always taken
care of, and I don’t force it—you close
your eyes and fix it. It’s still on the beach.
The sea is clean, life is unnecessary, dark
and rocky. Our hands are cold as wood,
our clothes are scattered on the sand.
Strangely, they never turn to ash. I gave
you what you needed to learn, and now
I know what happens to the dreamer now:
they don’t feel it when they change. They
get up and get dressed and get old.
