you, in whom dreams

Beneath the gypsy moon
all things look at her
but she cannot see them.

--Garcia-Lorca

you, in whom dreams shake themselves
to death, around whom air stands trembling,
suddenly visible and uncertain
of its surroundings; you are flawed, yes,
but so is our earth, our sleep, our breath

you, in whom dreams know how to live
for they have found a home;
in their happiness, they pull
on the water, on the shore, and anyone
who stands dazed between the two,
unsure of whether to be buried
in land or at sea--

(let us look under this smooth blond stone,
and what creatures do we find:
dreams, and more dreams, swarming and growing
the stages from larva to foal)

you, who have drawn me out over miles
of phone wire and train track,
who have tested my magic, white and black,
you are like despair become friendly:
to be ever approached, but never embraced,
the summer icicle that hangs above my door
you are as patient as a tidal beast,
and as lacking in intention,
spilling only part of yourself yet turning
rock to sand nonetheless, breaking down
what I have called mine in both
your ebb and your flow:
reminding me how large I am, and making me small
reminding be how large life is, and making it small
reminding me that waiting is the next best thing
to death itself--
yet somehow with the thought of you, time becomes
a thing of the clocks and age
becomes a word that rings once, and falls

you, inside whom dreams the wise young fool,
finally awake and blinking, his stitches
removed but days ago, and his skin
forgetting, so that in the end he will know only
that which was not meant to be forgotten;
he who cannot decide between burial at sea
or land, and by choosing both withers inside
the raindrop on its way into the soil

he has seen many good rainfalls in which to die,
and he has seen many days and nights,
but you--you, in whom dreams--know what he means
when he says last night was different,
that it rained so hard,
fires were started

copyright 2006 Peter Gutierrez
bio
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