As the stories run over me

& leave traces of themselves in my library -

the resonance of yesterdays

cup-on-wall listening

begins to sound in my

soul

and with a few blocks

of tension,

it reveals the hole, in the space

which was not there

before but which

has found its place

in my head!

- so i sit here instead

waiting, awaiting - like a doe for

her stag - for the life

of me to begin again,

so i do not lag

behind the train

of thoughts that are too

quick for me to take

into my body &

make real.

Like those dreams that appear before me,

in shapes, in form

in birth & torn

from the original

pattern

or trail from which they

came forth, like a

veil of my own light

& traces of myself

in this heightened awareness

in every frail

beginning & the end

of each

time scale

make me stammer as

i walk along on tiptoe

the startling songway

of my own interpretation,

seem-less - without seam

the delicate way

of a dream.