Byron

I put my hand

Into the dream

That falls upon

The air. It

Touches me a little,

But I don’t complain.

I’m almost asleep

When I get there.

Where Byron

Lost the scent of his

Life, over there,

Where the dreams are.

It’s always

Hot, like

The eyes of the

Dream. Sometimes

The dream is

On the dunes

Watching the molten

Ocean burn the sun.

The dream scours the

Sand in your fish

Tank for the plastic

Mermaid who is gaining

weight. Nevertheless,

We go to the edge

To watch the dream

And the repetition being

Hurled ashore like

A drop of blue,

You wrote in a poem,

In a language

You alone

Understand

In the dream.