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Morning,
by the way,
the dream catcher was given to me,
and the kisses just made that dream,
that incessant high school one,
scream...
‘I’m alive!’
with purpose for those few playfull seconds.
Call me cliff-dangler,
like the scent that you’ll hold on to,
I’m clinging to these ones.
I’m clinging to them,
like my fumbled feeble hurried explanations;
caught in the catchers’ rye,
by the way my ancestors cows may have passed Escort by now.
On their way to Howick by your gentleness I fall,
and by your care I’ll make them swear to yours to make me
yours,
to make me your dream,
screw the clichés-
my strawberries and
cream.
Let them call you my-dream-catcher once and for all-
given the distance between your here and my there,
while I try to catch my sleep whilst I’m thinking about you.
Build my palace with dreams.
