Are you the one onto whom
silence and dreams unfold?

( If you can let go –
can bear to wait
someone will happen
that you won’t see coming )

Downstream from here
there is a tale of sparrows fallen,
opened as dream-scape wanderers
on a weekend beyond the edge,

Yesterday, when I was a boy,
a grey-legged heron fished the wharf
streaming Rachmaninov in F major
flat they were, those golden gifts, although

The sandpaper lick of meadow grass
sheds a prickly cascade
as we brush along cloven paths.
Blueprints that boot-heels cross…