Horizon to Horizon.

I am drifting through time and space
half awake and not really sleeping
dreams past train windows
and landscapes
and landscapes.

Other dreamers, almost-dreamers,
and death upon them never dreamers
pass fervent by desert
a lash twitch,
fingers pulled in
passing dreams.

I am sitting across from you
and right next to you.
You tell me
my mother and I
share the same smile.
I smile.
“Yes,
she gave it to me
many years ago.”

And you are a silhouette
an arching nose
on balding hills
balding hills with balding shrubs
with sun on their faces
with barracks in the distance.

I wonder
at what altitude
do mountains begin to dream?

And I begin
an almost-dreaming
sipping dew from fresh blades
in the meadow
of a country farmer
hair damp to the morning earth.

My lungs become the sky
the sky becomes my lungs
and they stretch vast
in oppressive beauty.

This pale expanse
beats lavender into my blood
filtering pure morning air
to the furthest reaches of my limbs.

The lungs reach farther
farther than my eyes
horizon to horizon
and another horizon beyond those.

I am a giant.
I breathe in the waking hills
I pluck petals from a white spring blossom
with my teeth
with my lips
and they become
as I become
my teeth
my lips.

I taste every breath of life in the desert.

I exhale with the planet
and together we begin to hum
OM.
It fills hidden homes
in the rock as we sing
OM.
It graces trembling leaves
at the tips of ancient fingers
OM.
It slithers off rocky cliffs
and down into the canyons ringing
OM.
And caresses down over the hills
over the fields
over the blades of green
entering the earth
and into my skin we breathe
OM.

There are ancient stones
that keep watch
from the mountain.
Those ruins bake in the sun
and wink to the waking eye
of a morning
in a farmer’s land.