Like the dust in the corners of the bedroom,
I need to suck out enough of my dreams,
write them down, that what remains
won't choke me in my sleep. I am a cord
that binds spirits, feelings, handfasted
until they recognise each other, and dissolve.

The girl who lives under the bed, huddled
over her only book, unable to talk. My grandfather
crying, telling my invisible mother how sorry he was.
He never wanted to hurt her. That time
is like a dream to him now, distant and psychic.
How the setting sun shone on the cold grass.

The real and the unreal melt together softly.
A nervous little ghost, hovering uncertainly
at the door. A gravastar: raining light, matter,
energy on the darkness of an unknowable surface.
My sandwich in the park, shared with pigeons,
while the alcoholic woman ate old lettuce, slowly.

Buddha and Shiva struggling from the corners of my room
to enlighten each other, deep navy against pale brown,
while the lovers wander near the blue waveshore. The pagoda
lost in a rain of bamboo and willow. Our kaleidoscopic photos
of family and friends, our coffeeshop conversations, these words:
a meaning that no single thing can hold.

Christmas Card

a small boy pushes a reindeer
in a trolley
through a snowy landscape
cartoon-blue night sky
bright smiling moon

his riches in the pocket of his body
his food in the air

careful of dragons
from ancient stories of how and why
patterns in spirals of the I and the I


June evening, brushed clouds
washed-out blue sky
edges yellowed and faded
like old paper in the sunshine.

The weeds beneath the wall
sag sleepy in the shadow,
and gnats dance like stars in the haze.

Soon, I'm going home to eat -
by the white sails of a Chinese ship.