The Solitudes of August - IX

Sometimes the dream turns into something real:
the silver edges of the heavenly river
re-appear as asphalt cul-de-sac,
the spiral hum of galaxies
become the cry of crickets as they die,
the vap'rous gold of August evenings
dissolves to forests, fattens into blackness.

The pyramid light on the temples of the Gods
who dispense perfection in the robes of men
is only the poems of Mahender Dudani
and the homes to the orphans of Greenwich.

The love of squirrels and power lines and lovers
turns to an emptiness in my center
like a light snorts from a match.

It is then, when this exercise in profusion is finally stilled,
and the first yellow lozenges collect in the grass
that I realize how crowded my loneliness has become,
how pale of a presence reality is,
how there is nothing but dream in this thick air.

It's a place designed for sleeping,
for windows with no blinds
to look on other windows
with the fragrant dust of morning light
the only thing inside.