HEART OF NIGHT

The morphology of dreams
is partially reliant
on the whims of a single
god, and Morpheus
is, to say the least,
a truly fickle bastard
who dangles before us
joy and nightmare
each always just
out of reach, but never
out of sight or hearing.
So we are left
to grasp like marionettes
operated by an unseen hand.

IN DREAMS

Mingling with the wind,
my dreams are carried off
into the night before I have
fully finished viewing them.
The heavy heat of summer
has seeps through the windows,
a blanket I cannot throw off
almost smothering, until
it, too, is soon washed
away by the rivulets of sweat
soaking into the sheets.
I reach out for my fleeting
dreams, try to pull them back.
But the wind laughs, whispers,
“I am beyond your control
and what I steal belongs to all
but he from whom I took it,
but I leave you other dreams
from other dreamers in its stead.”

ROAD TRIP

Two nights gone
and sleep has come fitfully,
and I stir each time
I reach across the bed
and you aren’t there,
and there is only the faintest
smell of bleach
and cleaning solvent.
I want very much
to dream of you,
to trace your cheek
with dream fingers,
to taste your lips on mine,
to hear the placid rhythm
of your breath,
but there is only
a stack of unused pillows
and the sound of the heater
battling to life.
I dream of you by day,
by night your absence
pulls me from the precipice
of deep sleep and dreams.

 

DISEMBARKING NARITA

You disembark quickly
a small bow to the flight crew,
and walk briskly to immigration.
The young man glances
at your passport and embarkation card
hands flying with the stamps.
The baggage is offloaded
onto the creeping segmented belt
yours the fifth through
the heavy plastic flaps
hefted onto the cart.
The customs agent pauses
as though contemplating a search,
but thinks better of the mess
that is a gaijin’s suitcase
and waives you through.
Cash is exchanged
through the small opening
with a perfunctory bow
and you move through
the silent sliding doors
carried on a wave of memory.
The driver bows
and you slide into traffic
for the slow crawl into Tokyo.
Evening is creeping slowly
over Narita and you
dream only of bed,
and the warmth of her lips
stirring in sleep,
an ocean away.