The Dream of the bird

A singular object — a marking in space —
allowed sight to rest.
One bright body occupied the full domain of vision,
eliminating all else from view.
Elimination became rest,
and rest became surrender.
Desire and fantasy follow vision —
so I, too, surrendered
to a single bright object.

In the dream, a thousand bright moons
rest in a radial arrangement, occupying the periphery of a circle,
and one brighter full moon occupies the center.
A thousand moons kneel in quiet devotion
to one more radiant than all,
beneath a generous blue dome
that answers prayers.

Every prayer follows the same ritual:
one hand resting steady against the dome’s wall,
one hand pressed over my chest, holding the heart.
As I lean, the blue dome walls carry my weight.
I’m light as a feather, moonlight reflecting into my sight,
and I, too, kneel
in quiet devotion.

My tongue is whispering — I pray to let me in
and the dome answers.
A thousand bright moons rest in quiet devotion,
while the brighter moon
occupies the center of the dream.

An unfulfilled dream
is a dream still desired.
The nature of dreams is forgetfulness —
so the dream must repeat itself,
its content hidden from the waking state,
for realization of the dream’s content would extinguish
the desire that sustains it.

And in dreams, as in wishes and fantasies,
it is the maintenance of longing that becomes its own nourishment —
not the fulfillment of what is dreamed.
For if fulfillment were to take place,
hunger would follow, not satisfaction.

And my lips — my lips carry a miserable longing
as the dream breaks free
from rigid circulations of seeking,
from the confining securities opted for in reality,
where matter outweighs feeling,
where matter outweighs my desire,
where my desires pray to meet your needs.

Yet as I wander freely in a waking state,

carrying my longing
my lips carry a miserable longing,
shared only with my hands.
As your lips feed that longing
by denying it rest, I long further.

My lips carry a miserable longing,
shared only with my hands —
to know the feeling of your surface,
to touch, to hold, to worship.
Yet you remain open only to sight.

So, I pray let me in
Sight alone is permitted rest.
When sight fails,
you pass from forgetfulness
into absence.

And in that forgetfulness, I betrayed —
for I forgot that I once took the moon as a lover.
He remains the kindest of all,
as he allows my sight to find rest.

There is a miserable longing
shared between my hands and my lips,
but not my heart or sight —
for they have accepted your absence.
For they once accepted your absence.

And as one dream replaces another
one pain replaces another.

Now they fear your absence,
yet my hands ache seeking your touch,
and my lips for the taste of your lips.
As I pray, “let me in,”
and you answer, “I will.”

I will architect you a heaven —
one where my longing finds its rest,
and the moon meets its resemblance of beauty
in your being.
Your likeness in kindness in him,
as he is in you.

I will architect you a heaven.
For my longing will not be satisfied
by the taste of your cunt —
as your cunt only fuels my hunger.

I will architect you a heaven,
as you force my body to learn stillness
only through your nearness,
where your rest surrender,
and your rest is found
in knowing you are held