Dreams of the Wilderness

I have dreams of the wilderness. I do.

My arms sprout branches, twigs

emerge from these: my body begins

to embody the rich eternity of the tree.

I become something

void of the hoarse call of steel

bombards me every day

with promises

that these clamps are good

for me, my health; that this is worth it, this

sparkling vacuum: I am starving for air.

Believe me, I have tried

to buy into the trade. But,

you see, I have dreams—

I really do—of something becoming

me like the wilderness, her singsong

voice like a resistless stream: utterance

unshaken, wake of a faithful thing—I wait

to become my dreams like this.


Cafe Deux Soleils, East Vancouver