Over Greenland

A current like a noise machine through sleep.

Blue lichen fields. Mossed boulders. Waking up

to ice cubes cracking in a plastic cup

and voices (“awesome for the Hong Kong branch

. . . well, most of all we miss our daughter . . . ”) I still

see it: the climb up slate as runnels spill

from some bare misted summit like a source.

Whatever sense this dream might make

to others. And whatever when they wake

they also have been dreaming. Rivers of faces

down hallways, merging, as desires mesh

and fissure. Cash for clothes or arms or flesh.

And if there is no towering sublime

where all comes clear to all, no final climb

through cloud, like some old Bible illustration:

how could that ever stop the current flowing

out of the glass at jfk: skin glowing

plumb and peach as we walk inside the sun.