Dreams in Santorini
I dreamed that I flew over
Santorini in a parachute-glider.
My hanging feet were
Bigger than the chalk white
Rounds of roofs, and my heart
Blue as the prim window rims,
Or the sea — and the ships,
The linen sails, the
Life unparalleled and strangely
Dense — aquatic,
But Busier than sin.
I dreamed that I floated down
Upon Santorini in a parachute-glider.
Until the fabric billowed out and met
The sea,
And my toes — and I sat there
Bobbing in the Santorini sea,
Watching a circus seal
Come up from underwater
And look at me —
Bop its nose
On the surface —
And the ripples went on
For so long,
I stopped counting the rings.
Roseblue
There was Burning at the edges,
Moth-wing crackling eye-lid heavy
Crust of sleep, and the midnight
Certainty of shut-up dollhouses,
Cat litter stuck to cat feet,
The nimble pitter-patter of rainwater
Dripping from the gutter
There was Burning like freezing
At the edges, sap-sweet cactus flower
At war with the looming pines, and
I sat up sleepless, sat and watched
The stars creep out in ones and twos,
Bleeding roseblue inkblot
Deads of bruise
The moon always left too soon,
And the sun too late.
A Tragedy Titanic
I held the biscuit
In the teacup
Just a tad too long,
So long it crumbled
And turned soggy
Broke off, and dissolved —
Titantic style — into
The scalding brown
Sea. Pale crumbs floated
Up pale bubbles, soundless
Saturated life-rings lost
Lost down down deep lost
In the aromatic brown sea.
The Absence of an Iceberg
Made no difference.