Published in the Spring 2001 issue of
Steel Point Quarterly
Dreaming With Your Hand
On The Small Of My Back
We evaporate, or
become washed out by brushes
who ask everything of light.
I dream about how we exist not in words
but in the motion set off by them,
the way a bird opens itself
up to the wind.
I face the dreamer
who knows me
who hears the words
soaking through the colors,
sees the bird snared
in the snow-linked lace
of dawn's crystal net.
(c)Tasha
