I. Infatuation: Only In My Dreams.
Let him dwell there
where he wants to go now,
now that he’s freshly hatched.
Let him poke about his head
where he wills
now that he’s welcome.
Give him the benefit of the privilege
of cohabiting with your plans,
your illusions, your hazy moments
between sleep and reality.
Let him stare at you at his will
at his whim, at his time
let him be, until no more.
II. Differing Realms.
When I nod with them
in agreement that you’re just an illusion,
I wonder at the authenticity
of my indrawn breath
whenever I witness your approach.
I wonder at the rush of clear air
entering my head
as your shoulders advance to the vicinity
of my aural space.
For I haven’t seen anything more real
than your bespectacled face,
moisturized with exotic genes and whatnot,
open to my guarded scrutiny.
For I haven’t heard anything more real
than your carefree voice,
rich with the realities of your existence,
at times rude, at times erudite.
When I nod with them, I mean to agree
that your realness is beyond my realm of defined possibilities.
III. Letting Be.
You’re a detached performer
fulfilling your obligations to your freedom,
always in the present
until all the presents are gone;
so that I have no notion of the future
where you’re concerned,
me, a silent bystander with arms akimbo,
always as watchful as a dumb sheep.
(March 8, 2000)