"One asks oneself this simple question 'What does that mean'? It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable."
In the first dream, a face furrowed and awash
in blood, foreground blending into background,
the entire canvas pulsing. Beyond the frame
a man who does not know he is a father
mumbles forgotten verses in his sleep.
A second dream. The Himalayan reaches,
the cry of a deserted eagle circling and circling
overhead while a woman unlatches her kimono
on a bed of straw, next to a bowl of yak's milk.
A street lined with the ancient carcasses of cars,
over the tops of which couples clamber, laughing.
Pages in an unknown script rain slowly down.
One day for every cherry blossom
kept in the silk purse of your open palm.
Waking, she finds a fifth dream smiling and stroking her hair.
29 January 2004 17:35 hours