If my father died mad, will I?
I wonder, sometimes.

Street lamps flicker tonight,
and so stumbles your ghost,
fumbling down the road,
going as far south as south goes.  

In my dream we walk
the white dunes of Yemen,
heading to the shelter of your heart,
where windows face pathways
leading us to waterfalls.  

It’s that time of year—
the sun’s shifting on the stones,
casting bigger shadows.

We’re lighting the torches earlier in the temples,
wondering what’ll happen if they fall.
Wondering if we’ll crumble,
if we’ll be able to keep the hearth warm.  

The dimensions we live in,
the dimensions we’re given—
our shadows cast ripples in time;
our other selves frozen in ice.  
When will they thaw out?  
And what to what?  

Seeking those who’ve solved the mystery,
bringing meaning to being;
while we share this time and space—
for a little while at least.