Dream small dreams — for Marianne Faithfull
 

A scatter of images
a-flame in my head
the burden
of nothingness,
dead.

The bellows of memory,
with sunrise all a-flame,
the pumping of the blood
and the naming of the names.

This richochet of meaning,
explodes in my mind,
I seep into simple
as I climb into rhyme.

A glance and a gesture,
of times nicely coming along;
look at my well-beloved,
and sing her a song.

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