What Dreams May Be

In my dreams I’m always hovering
before the evening primroses,

their centers of ruby gold and bent
stalks whispering praise to me.

It’s always prelude playing here:
bee edicts echoing down days

stung to silence under gauzy clouds,
slivered moons, and in steam

rising from pollen. My portly
body taxis in repose. I fall

in love. Each night I deeper fall,
my buzzing swarm swaddled

alike in dreams. We are fuzzy
monks deep in contemplation

on mountains of mere wind.
Our feet frizzle in prayer. Nectar

rolls in our mouths like honey
withheld. I am orotund rapture:

that is me to thee, dancing on nothing
substantial, swaying in my stripes on thick air.