Over Greenland

A current like a noise machine through sleep. Blue lichen fields. Mossed boulders. Waking up to ice cubes cracking in a plastic cup and voices (“awesome for the Hong Kong branch . . . well, most of all we miss our daughter . . . ”) I still see it: the climb up slate as runnels spill from some bare misted summit like a source. Whatever sense this dream might make to others. And whatever when they wake they also have been dreaming. Rivers of faces down hallways, merging, as desires mesh and fissure. Cash for clothes or arms or flesh. And if there is no towering sublime where all comes clear to all, no final climb through cloud, like some old Bible illustration: how could that ever stop the current flowing out of the glass at jfk : skin glowing plumb and peach as we walk inside the sun.