Byron

I put my hand Into the dream That falls upon The air. It Touches me a little, But I don’t complain. I’m almost asleep When I get there. Where Byron Lost the scent of his Life, over there, Where the dreams are. It’s always Hot, like The eyes of the Dream. Sometimes The dream is On the dunes Watching the molten Ocean burn the sun. The dream scours the Sand in your fish Tank for the plastic Mermaid who is gaining weight. Nevertheless, We go to the edge To watch the dream And the repetition being Hurled ashore like A drop of blue, You wrote in a poem, In a language You alone Understand In the dream.