SAGA OF THE SNAIL

I dreamed I was in your dream.

Your lids were drawn, my blood was all but steaming.
Your glass was fogged, your censers veiled,
but were you really dreaming.
If motes could scream!
—Had the moon betrayed your slivered eyes with gleaming!
My wings were moored, my panes opaque,
but was I truly dreaming.

As moonlight ran from chalk to bone, and shadows ash to coal,
I prayed my pulse would soften lest the silence read my soul.

But I swear…if I touch you there…
if I peel down the sheet, as gently as I can,
would you comprehend the lash, in your web so soft and sweet—
how could you understand—what it means to be a man.

Dream never end! Dream never die!
Propriety be ******. A brute in pain am I.

I’ve sullied thee! Forgive me, sweet, gentle Frances.
Share the warmth you radiate, the glow that it enhances.
We can take our chances.

How fully you have blossomed, how lovely you have grown.
With grains of sand the gods have cast a semiprecious stone,
secretly. They whisper you were made for me; sweetly, gently—
then boot me out of bed to spend another day alone.

O mea! A feebly pacing castaway, I watch your lines drift by.
My body howls the night away, succumbing with a sigh.
My mind retreats in slumber, pursuing you and I.
But my dream is one day older, and Frances, so am I.

I have lived this dream, have loved this lie,
was born that you might see
that Frances, when I die,
your love a cradle be.