let the oceans be milk

let the oceans be milk with the gathered light of old photographs
 
wrap me in a blanket, something soft. no box. something with your scent, the way coyotes recognize home.
 
do you think when dogs or cats circle their bed before lighting down, that what they are doing is erasing the history of that spot? that way dreams are more direct.
 
swift, these people inhabiting this space surrounding me. I’m so still. things to tend, no rush, my feet like fallen leaves on the ground. do you suppose dead folks decided to sit down for a while, then just thought they’d stay? even my thoughts are maple sap, my most busy right now, being you.
 
why is it eyes seem like windows to us? not figurative but literal. really. who do you see in a stranger’s eyes? maybe the earth is a lens. one moon soaking into light?
 
 
neil reid © november 2013
 
 
credit due. writers do steal another’s words. as I did with the title here, slightly paraphrased from a poem by Tung-Hui Hu, Greenhouses, Lighthouses. with thanks.