Lucid Dream

Morning’s sheer margin,
feathery protuberance that brushes

against my face until I stir.
Limpid milk, topiary of frozen liquids.

In every language I know,
I practice saying Do you love me?

I unpeel layer after layer:
down to the water table,

down to the quiet mud.
In another hundred years,

our fingers might trace
the beveled surface of the same bud.


In response to Via Negativa: Grandiloquent and Rebecca Horn: Cockatoo Mask.

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