As little as a candle’s flame, I hold br Dreams for you, like br Amethyst on the courthouse floor, br Like a heron perched on a branch in br The belly of the jewel-weed lake; br I bight my lip over on the veranda of br A wedding, and the entire sky is dismissively br Beautiful as an open lover; br I drive beneath her, the day proceeds in br The courting of its hours, but come never br Nearer to your breathing space; br The cold-blooded alligators peddle toward br Warmth, and the key-deer nuzzle against br The knees of cypress. There are story books br Lost like children in the everglades, br And down airplanes like freshwater coral; br But I held you in my head today, coming up br To the surface, this hopeful oxygen, br Both the naivety of my artistic dysfunction, br And the entrepreneur of its creation; br If justified, I would open a store of you, and sell br It in colorful grains in bottles, and in shells; br If you were to come in, I would show you around, br And show you how easily you sell, or catch you br By surprise, press my lips to yours, and br Hand over your self worth in a book of distilled br Lines, how you lay there, the lucidity of my creation, br A little dream of you, like a candle’s flame, br I keep folded in my pocket when I walk alone br In the quiet forest, hiding your light from the darkness.