I didn’t write
today my voice
harsher than most
days huskier and
tired but still I try
from the depths of
my silenced voice
to speak in words
as a poet is charged
to do
every day

Nightmares
have been dogging
me like a pouty
child
they now sit next
to me as I write
black page missed
call why do they
haunt me day and night
first I welcomed them
now eyes clench
trying to dispel them
like evil
sorcerers

blow northeast across
my deck drawing cool
washcloth winds
across my arms chills
run up my chest to
my neck a dog alerted
sitting in the sun
they breeze from side
to side rustling papers
like an old fan on my desk
they move ideas to the
floor

Romeo sits beside me
his flank against mine
fire to water we steam sitting
next to each other
he moves to extend
his legs he adjusts himself
then leans against me
like a weathered fence pole
to a tree did you ever think
that a flank could be so sexual
or a back or a shoulder
Romeo sits flank against flank
watching a movie
or Netflix

What is it called
when dreams become
reality like the knitter
envisioning a sweater
when what your mind
played in sleep now
my fingers touch hold
stroke nails first up and
down the naked flanks
what is this thing called
when that longed for
kiss at long last is planted
on your lips like an alighting
butterfly

what is is called
when you are
your
dream