BYRON

BYRON

BYRON

I put my hand
Into the dream
That falls upon
The air. It
Touches me a little,
But I don’t complain.
I’m almost asleep
When I get there.
Where Byron
Lost the scent of his
Life, over there,
Where the dreams are.
It’s always
Hot, like
The eyes of the
Dream. Sometimes
The dream is
On the dunes
Watching the molten
Ocean burn the sun.
The dream scours the
Sand in your fish
Tank for the plastic
Mermaid who is gaining
weight. Nevertheless,
We go to the edge
To watch the dream
And the repetition being
Hurled ashore like
A drop of blue,
You wrote in a poem,
In a language
You alone
Understand
In the dream.