Dreams

The nocturnal slur of words
and headiness in your
hips
and throat
like a ship
that drifted out
too far -
such is the stuff
of dreams, my son.

Storms that hover
off the coast
of your smile
and those tiny seedlings
of ruby hue
making poor men
wish for riches -
such is where we make our bed
once daylight slips
from view.

Love that leaves us
threadbare and blind
to all but pleasure
seeking shelter,
and those incantations
of the flesh
spun by fledgling senses -
such are the prayers
that slip our lips
once darkness claims its due.