The other country is: a silhouetted hill
by a lake in a night sky, the shape of a naked
woman from your dreams. I woke up on
a steering wheel with V.W. imprinted on my forehead.
I drove north and detoured left, always left, around a lake
and started back where I began in dreams.
The star in the western sky flickers above my manger.
Reading Keats, O’Solitude and your touchable dreams.
It seems as if Keats saw 9/11 in the first three lines of this poem.
As if nothing has changed in the poetic span of time.
I dwell in murky buildings but my soul it is free.
In here I see the wonder that is really, the blue me.
I know I’ll never again walk up observatories hill but
nature is here inside me