Constant rain births moss so
green it whispers,
"lick me, I'm toxic" as it shrink-wraps
bricks and ent-like forests. Then-truth twists
with now-reality until the big-sky
wheat fields become the fairy tales, myth behind
the moss curtain of memory. Was it
wheat or was it hay?
Dream walking,
each step sinking
and pulling. Salt waves
crash into teasings until fingers test
the waters. They brush wind-blown hair from
face, leaving a trace to be found by
a tongue wetting salted
lips, "wake up! this is the taste of water now," shakes
from a dream of back-floating lake
sunsets, eyes open to the cooling dusk, sound
water-muffled like the inside of seashells, sea
monsters just fingertips and heart-races away
until slow breaths drown them around
mermaid hair.
Orange haze of streetlights rises above
red-tipped steeples and
yellow incandescent windows saying,
“we are home, stay out.” Stay
out longer, lying in silent
blanketed white, cold hinting
through backs of thick-wrapped limbs held
still by the winter
snow. Moon spotlight
on this quiet bug captured
under black sky, body sinking
somewhere else.
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