poetry

They wove themselves to sleep
and were boiled while they dreamt
of mulberry leaves and sunlit dusty wings
of flowers and flames and seductive full moons

of forests rustling in the summer breeze
of bustling streets filled with shrieking horns

and the pungent neon hiss of food stalls.

​

Their dreams unfurled
and we wove them into garments
with all the softness of unmetamorphosed ambitions.

​

Come, wear this wondrous tomb of a thousand ghostly wings

and feel fluttering against your skin all the colors of the sky

and on your tongue
the faint flavor of midsummer midnights

the laughter of leaves

the song of cicadas.