Through these fields
Some journeys start like stories,
some like dreams.
(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and touch the hem of your breath;
these sheets, dressed in darkness,
touching your flesh.)
Strange journeys,
strange frontiers,
where some things end in stories,
others move like dreams.
(I can’t see my skin
through these fields of you;
all my seasons bound
to a touch of you.)