he writes sad lines at night
and by morning’s light bleeds his pen dry
o’er the words. buddha meditates
on the rain over gilead. honey and balm
and coral beads for rosaries
as they walk the fine line between
thought and flesh. she’s gone.

and when Morpheus raises his flag
of tatters and gold leaf in victory,
he dreams in ivy-covered bridges
and neologistic mantras, in stone
and India ink and the sound of two voices.

and she—surya namaskaram
and natarajasana for he who
strews poppies across her bed
and paints the tree of life in
swirling eddies of uisce beatha
upon her wrists—the scent of skin
and soap and him lingers on her hands.

and as the moon, hanging from the boughs of stars,
melts with the pull of the tide,
the oneiric breath disturbs the curtains:
inhale. exhale. duality.