Dream Poem

Two poets copulated and now
one gestates a fish
that cannot be caught
with net or line.

Inside her now
an image forms in the mingled
smoke of their two bodies -
a hand of friendship
that is also a tree -
it contains the sap of love
the pain of grief
and shall create its flowers forever
in the heart of the world.

A tired King whose crown is found
on a dung heap
appears beneath the tree
clutching his tattered flags.
What he says next has sounded
in the skulls of common men
for fifty thousand years.
He says simply, “I am here”.

Meanwhile, the Queen holds an egg
in her outstretched hand,
speaks in a language that cannot
be written down.

She says, “This orb is my hope.
It is the future or it is a fox’s breakfast.
If it hatches, nothing shall ever be the same”.

And now we pass that egg
back and forth
you and I
in awe and terror
never daring to smash
nor incubate nor eat.