They wove themselves to sleep and were boiled while they dreamt.
|They wove themselves to sleep
and were boiled while they dreamt
of mulberry leaves and sunlit dusty wings
of flowers and flames and seductive full moons
of forests susurrating in the summer breeze
of bustling streets filled with shrieking horns and the pungent neon hiss of food stalls.
Their dreams unfurled
and were woven into garments
with all the softness of unmetamorphosed ambitions
Come, wear this wondrous tomb of a thousand ghostly wings
and feel fluttering against your skin all the colors of the sky
and on your tongue
the faint flavor of midsummer midnights
the laughter of leaves
the song of cicadas.