i awake among blue mornings,
the round calls of a suburban bird,
so many dogs, leashed and unleashed,
and memories, unleashed, one by one.
they become the cool air of the dream
where i meet old friends and fantasies,
which become the yellow afternoon.
with unbelievable care, they dig out
a knot i swallowed, back on my tongue
with a fresh fermented flavor, which,
i’m told, may affect the scent of my sweat.
what does any of this have to do with
the food that i eat, the materials
of my home, the air of this dream?
i don’t know, the ending was unclear,
i try to explain—to whom?—it depends
on the translation—of who? the priest?—
love is always failing and neverending.
don’t be afraid, it was great to see
your smiling face, congratulations, can i
hold you a little longer, some of me may stay
hidden, nestled in the branches of a redwood,
with its fine leaves and small cones,
and call out each morning and afternoon
as honestly as i possibly can.