i fear whose hearth
tongues a whetted fire of dream:

i believe dreams no longer

because dreams smith an immense, black
bell which mine cathedral cannot hold,

because it births an artichoke
strangled by seaweed.

it is because its friction, an allegorical hand denies skin, carries in it an origami
of shrubs and dense fires which smoke
chokes my lost heart.

it is because its machine that never sleeps toils all morning, making the evenings full and tender with scorned
sound of gnashing gear-work, sending
me to unsettled sleep;

it is because i wake where windows
are opened and only the wind touches
my cumbersome body,

it is because dreams slender like wheat
grow molds when striding past waters
takes too long for me to reach
your portico where you wait for me.

it is because i walk past ignominious streets palpable with the disgrace
of the crowds that contain no faces.
it is because when my eyes are lightsome,
such image blurs and i cannot paint it,
and when they close, departures start
bells in my heart.

it is because dream is a flowering
and sleep has no use of its senseless
crown of knives, and i, like a child
yearning for a mother, ambles slowly
in fascination of a hurt underneath the throb of an old moon's wane.

it is because when i am next to you,
i am stiff with the rigor of sleep's pallor
and in the headiness of my dreaming of you, i cannot move to even summon
the brash locomotive of the train

which stops a sudden when i am
a few steps near you.