They break like glass, these dreams that in the night
shatter so hard to constellate a sky,
collecting alive the ocean’s constant sigh
and breathing deeply its abandoned light –
as lovers dream the glass clouding their sight
is surely made from things like these, which by
and by transform into echoes that fly
within the stars. A long time ago, flight
was how words travelled. Now they only steal
from one mouth to another, like a kiss
that starts one day and, wishing, goes so boldly
on. One heart calls out, lonely. In the hills
the wind keeps blowing, slowly, softly, coldly.
The stars fall to the ground. They break like glass.