After the dream
No more storms of images: the sea is calm
and already shining as it is written, the exile will be over,
and these words: ourselves we create meaning from our inner
room, and it melts in the oven when the sun breaks,
she said when we turned at the river bend,
or did she say it after all,
it began to rumble as the wind ripped
with a claw of salt and algae.
And now the hills sink into the twilight
for a thousand kilometers, pine needles cut
the landscape. Nothing moves, the air tunes
itself, ready to burst.