Dharamsala

Fingertips or heaven-slung tears tapping on the roof

Of my dreams and no gutters to save them.

Bleary my brother’s head breathing slowly

Next to me on this hotel bed and if it weren’t

For us talking about the visions that take us at night then

This travel would be shot in all black and white—
I rise and try to remember what went on

Inside me the cold night gone.  Outside,

Dawn lays all gray so I take my shirt off and hope

The amber in my eyes leak resin or wisdom

For me to wear, but only see the crows

Gathering atop that naked pine instead.

I shut my eyes, hold my breath, reach

My arms out toward them—

I remember how cold it is and wrap myself

In the blue folds of the distance instead and

If only my momma could see me now

She’d take the shirt fallen at my ankles and

Put it on the wood stove so it’d be warm when

I actually wake up.  Maybe brother has. The

Crows are gone.

In the name of

Simpler love please keep

Raining on our dreams so we might

Learn to sleep deep

Enough

That those drops could never find us,

Let alone drown it all

Away. I pick up my shirt and

Go back to bed.