Samuel PeraltaThe Dream
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
“This Heavy Craft”— P. K. Page
is perhaps
a dream of you.
And the bird your
last unfinished verse
before you fell to earth.
And the night this world
without you, suddenly
overwhelmed with
loss, a song unheard,
where a bird
finds feathered rest.
And I am stirred
to whisper words
as would fly through
this glass air, as would
recall you, bright
as metal, incandescent
coal, rose-fragrant
words to take flight
night after starry night
when your absence
tests this faltering
hologram of faith.
No, not my words, but yours,
migrant across the pages,
flying across the deep
pleated blue of the ocean,
like aerial shadows
in memory steeped.
While I'm asleep
your verses thread
into my dream,
as if they would embroider
with flowers and birds
this heart that only knows
that you are missing
still. Night after starry night
while I'm asleep
your poetry sings,
unfolds its phantom wings.
