… dream form.

By J. K. McDowell

November 2011

 

Question:  Is a poem a container or contents?

I know I’m mostly water yet I can’t flow

Easily from this shattered sake bottle.

 

Question:  Are my metaphors too self serving?

The smoke clears, the spill dries, forgotten forest prayers

Offer a lost soulfulness.  The door slides closed.

 

In your silence I held the dreaming.  The writing

Guides the way.  A lattice of longing so fragile,

I worry about selecting the next question.

 

So tiny, the Soul’s etching on a shard of glass.

As I read the poem I do not notice the

Sharp cuts, the fingers’ red tears.  No more questions.

 

Answers, invisible like the air we breathe.

Fear fades, blinded by the realities exposed in

A soft reflection of shattered lead crystal.

 

It is 2AM Jim.  Any hour is right and true

To toast the friendship that can melt the cullet and

Take the glassblower’s soft breath, giving the dream form.

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