Desert Bricklayer, Lay Me Down
in Dream You Thought Had Died

Your hands, in my dream, appeared blistered, sore,
bricklayer-rough, burned by cruel sun that bore
down upon us both.

I lost you in a sandstorm, asking why,
stumbled so long after upon the lie,
its strange origin.

What can source matter to one left holding
pile of crushed bones, broken heart now folding
into nothingness.


What stones are these you’ve laid within your heart?
What wall is built too thick to tear apart?
Would you find me here?

I would cup, caress hands that built such walls,
but first I’d search your eyes like waterfalls,
feel what pain must be.

Lay me down, there in dream you thought had died.
Let miracles that flow from stream abide
in our hearts for life.