Tuesday, April 21, 2020

Moonlit Juniper

The dream is teaching nothing.
It is used to seeing things
That can’t be said to be there

Or not there. I have never—
Said the dreamer to the dream—
Trusted you so very much

As when you came as moonlight
Mantling ordinary trees,
As if poetry were art

Or something, like the letters
Of a woman who wanted
From youth to flee forever

With a mirror-image soul
To an exotic island.
No islands are exotic

Anymore, replied the dream,
And you can’t stay here with me,
Nor would you ever want to.

No, nor would I—nonetheless,
If we have to talk like books
And not like breathing people,

We might as well play this out.
You be the full moon moving
Slowly over my shadows,

And I’ll be the juniper,
Sentient, rooted, and remote.
You pretend to be shining

Forever, and I’ll pretend
That I’m obscuring nothing,
Given neither of us spoke.

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