sometimes now
I disappear
and wake beyond the wanting
beyond the urge
to scatter
all I’ve known
to leave behind
without a note –
passion unrelenting
to slip beneath
the shutter to the door
how many
I have wondered
righteous dreams I spared
the moon to pull –
I sleep
and find you there
. . .
A butterfly dreaming she’s a woman, or a woman dreaming she’s a butterfly…
…. both wondering if they are only dreams