The evening sun is bright,
my dreams however
are singing hymns of fading twilight.
Why does this cartridge paper weep?
sipping inks of distant nets.
The lavender of forgotten festivals
mingles within my crisp legs.
Your hands are so small,
they make the roses weep.
Keep the soft yellow burning
for my beloved adrift on porcelain waves.
Let the smallness of what I am
meet and love the amplitude
of what will never meet
but in the dreams of illuminated bridges.