Dreams

So what I want is just a gait,

a way of loping,

a horse walking into town

with its sleeping rider

swaying,

how a leopard swings its head

to turn and strut to the sound of languor

after eating.

The beat of leather soles on stone,

that bugle call

the prince bears with him

through his wearisome dominion,

a way to own,

a way to lord the sweating jungle over,

a way for everyone to see,

a way for six-shooter-swinging hips to be.

But there’s another kind of movement too.

Imagine two a.m. on a quayside;

a boat has loosened from its mooring and

is being reeled out to sea.

You feel it passing by you

into that big ball of darkness

and there’s just a little urge

to leap in after it and float

until you both become unseen.