Of course they’re only dreams: the face of God,
the daughter drawn from constellation flames,
an ever-present sky devoid of void,
the peace you hoped your mother found at home.
They speak of nothing meaningful as mud.
Sometimes, though, you wish you could buy those dreams,
accept that world of elder men who toyed
with callow minds, who shook their heavy tome
of answers in your face.
Beneath the sod,
mute bodies lie below their stone-carved names.
Sometimes you lie in dreams until you’re cloyed
with doubt of doubt.
Keats lies unnamed in Rome.
Your body roils with air and earth alloyed.
Of air we make dreams.
Of earth we make loam.