In this circus of the mind,
you are the dreamraker, the
seller by the booth of riches.
You are the daylight’s yellows
and the blue stratum of sleep.
We knew each other in the
shadowless angle of noon,
bartered minutes, collected
seaside the shells of
poetry. You opened the door of
tents. The edges of the sand’s
various galleries collapsed
into rivers, opened into books.
You are the sheik of araby, the
dream-maker, the purples
mornings brush in the eyes
of wise men.
Dreams surrounded the day’s
median. Time was, red was the
color of afternoons pressed
against us. Now the tents
move nearer the water than
you. The past is covered
canvas, the future is the wet
unbroken fabric of beach.
The bazaar closes, tents fold,
pictures painted on the moon’s
memory move on. You and I
walk to the uncut littoral,
carve footprints in the cool
green silence, the first morning
of the world.
8393*
written for Bruce Nerenberg upon the completion of his PhD at UWM 8/93
rejected: The Little Magazine 4/10/94
Colorado Review 4/30/94
The Sun 9/18/94
Cream City Review 8/20/96
The Madison Review 4/14/99
The Alabama Review
written for Bruce Nerenberg upon the completion of his PhD at UWM 8/93