Merchant of Canton

I have cut the meat from dreams
and hung them here,
melodic golds and vibrant prose –
soft lights
hard shadows
meanings hidden in the rows
how quickly is a dream devoured,
down the line,
and by the feaster they have savour
for but a morsel of measured time.

I have cut the meat from dreams,
and sold the sinew and skins, as well –
and quickly now I am becoming
one with no dreams left to sell.


That was only a dream of comfort,
awaken to this drear reality
put on a pot of coffee, or
throw an egg in a skillet –
drink from a stream, if you must,
whatever it takes
to fall back in love with the dream.