I keep some things to myself,

knowing that disclosure

is a sound that sometimes

only dogs and critics hear.

I know the damage dreams

can suffer in some hands.

So I hold them close—

my dreams—

like newborns needing suckle,

like secrets that are magic

only when they are not shared.

Because they’re mine alone

they are untouched . . .

undefiled . . .

unattached to any word or deed,

to any face or form,

to any foreign need.

These dreams they are the force

that moves across the surfaces

and through the depths

and to the heights

of what I most believe . . .

like the stars that speak

the language I am learning,

like a god who only

answers prayers from me.

In my silence I can keep

the faith I feel,

leave it burning and becoming

what I want, without explaining.

I can choose it anytime

and it will always call me

to a place that’s clearer,

sweeter, more than

where or who I’ve been,

more than any company I’ve kept

or kingdoms that I’ve seen.

These dreams, they know the way

and in the not revealing,

in the nondisclosure,

I am getting where I’m going,

I am letting myself go.

I am just not telling.