dreaming in between gavan hill and harbor mountain

it defines vision, seals the sky,
confines reality, tucks me closer and closer in
to only myself. thick rolls of white pouring into
canyons, sometimes flooding, sometimes
trickling jungle feathers brushing my cheek
not touching, though, eye sight's sometimes
sore sometimes soaring has a touch as
startling as the fingers of his absence,
i hold my breath expecting to trip through
this thick mass of nothing and all it is
is just that--nothing, and up here, here
in this idealand, i get up on top of
the clouds, race through the mist
because it's not there at all
only webs of cotton candy webs
of sugar air frosting the tops of trees
sweeter full of
something intangible ineffable
but full and i don't feel it at all
but i see it, and i believe, what else
can you see but not touch? maybe
only dreams.

dls