the problem with my dreams
is that they are long pictures
not just long videos
they are emotional gold statues in a garden
not just dancers who's arms flow out
they are mouths that stay their tastes of water
not just songs feeling the canals through to the ending
they are arms sticking out of a box
not just feet muscles pressing on the pedals of daydreams
they are hearts scratching the glass of windows
not just a hand rotating a thinking wooden stick
they are knees near flattened ankles
not just bent elbows tensing and untensing punching down, writing on desks
until it's time to run smaller
they are a rotating big idea
inside a tree.
And the problem is they don't just make me feel ashamed
of dreaming again
they make me feel new
like the old ugly winter tree believes, and then on his old frame
new things beautify him
and it is only with the old and new
that I am so reverent so sacred so with tears in my eyes
about my dreams
and it is hard to know so much