am i the blood of
library search parties
wondering who's who
in plasma rapture
quiet time

a fresh limb
exposed
is all i got
is all I am

pieces

Where in the vast green,
the bee-sting sweetness
is an envelope
let alone

what dreams may come
in the waking hours
to shine like stars
against a backdrop
of endless
sleep

?

what is the shape of a hand
that holds a dream?

what is a dream
with no waking to remember it by?

the search for the after-dream
so abruptly ended by the
waking up

fed the notion
of accomplishment

human environment

made
up

to know to know to know
you can't project what isn't captured
and light flies too fast

and my hands are so clumsy

expectation is artifice
made
up

does it get us any closer to earthen hands
those of use
in a way without eyes

flinging pigment
and there's an image
careless seeming
but so specific

as the sleeping moments
feed the waking ones
am I a bridge to be walked across?

there are people in my dreams that I recognize
even if only as a fragment of
that they are
they ask me to elucidate
and are still waiting

I am made to believe that the waiting continues
while i'm awake
trying to make it clear myself

but time flies so fast
and even though my hand is growing steady
there is a tremor that is the root
the bone

there is comfort
in something that can't be understood
vast concepts
like blankets to be rapt it

all is clear to the smoking man
only matches
and something to be burned
and someone to burn it

between patient inhalations
folded smoke
the only movement
ember red
the only color
in the dark