Every Night of Our Lives

i.

 

In dreams

houses are ends

of sad tales; a lantern’s

glint in a parched land. The first touch

of rain.

 

ii.

 

Outside

each dream window,

a small abyss: memory

waiting closed-mouthed. The sting in its

blue lips.

 

iii.

 

Nothing

is spared, trees are

here, just where their leaves touch

your face. Each, a fossil brush, drawing

you out.

 

iv.

 

You burn;

emerge bright

and trembling, a fierce

unfolding: you, dead to your own

secrets.