THE DREAMERS
You speak to me of rhymes,
The past, and glorifying times.
I nod my head
And wonder when you’ll come to bed.
You lift your arm and cigarette
And breathe out from your nose.
You run your tongue along your lips
And make them wet.
I trace my fingers, just their tips
Along the ridges of your spine
And linger in the line
Between your thigh and hips.
A little wine sits in the glass
Half off and on the chair,
And ashes spill upon the grass
Of carpet we bought last year.
You speak to me of rhymes
And turn your head.
I roll to my side of the bed
And dream of glorifying times
. . . of black olives and red wines.
Stanley H. Barkan
Notes on "The
Dreamers"
Stanley Barkan insists that poems should not need explanation and cannot have an
explanation. They just are.
Stanley Barkan is a passionate proponent of cross-cultural communications.
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