those who hunt in dreams
know the deceptions of the deep snow
the stillness, like silence, before the trap
snaps the bone.
they share, unknown, to each solitary
other
the frustration of a desire
that goes nowhere and does nothing and
is indifferent even to the mockery it
suggests
it carries them through the tides
of this world ‘s surge and swell
and they drift into indifference, mud beached
and, as on the backs of elephants,
sweaty, clumsy, baited
are swayed.
each breath
the same as they rise and fall
admit it.
admit also the arrow's constant flight
the turning a side. the rightness of
the gaze; the slight smile, a gesture as the target's hit
and one is reborn again
a stranger to oneself.
acknowledge this, you who hunt in dreams.
these black marks on a white page also
is from one such, among those
others who live lives not their own.
these
you shepherd into voice
just so they can give you
a way.
those
who hunt in dreams are ruined
for life made simple in that pain.
they learn indifference while clouds
drift like whales
above a subterranean moon.
each poem a harpoon