what you could be for me,
some sort of daydream lost for better wakings--
a plot left behind for character development.
a word, these days,
meaning something and signifying little,
squalling its way across time and space
to find your ears,
to find your fingers and your heart.
what can i be, here and now, what is there left
to accomplish?
there is only the dreaming,
and what it means to the soul.
there is only the heart and what it demands,
something solid
or only just half-waking, starting up
at outside sounds,
the heart a moment from lucidity that decides
to let you in and let you stay.
what is there in forgetting that cannot be found
during the art of staying awake, during the time
spent saving,
spent keeping the body from its own blood--
because the body runs on dreams,
runs on possibilities,
will not be denied.