Dreams

In dreams, all is electric.
Even fear is worth the trip,
every jagged edge of bloody window glass
has its nervous living story, shimmering
crimson oil on each trembling tip.
Love in that place is first dances,
yielding of earth to water,
the descent of bright doves,
and then fire, carnivale,
a strawberry tongue to the ear.

In dreams, charge your soul
with the current of touching,
of watching, feeling, and running.
There's no time for sleep,
and no body to tire.

Run to the city square under the moon,
listen to the whisper of the ochre salamander.
"Energy is overrated," he says, as he casts
himself again into the fire.