be quiet

i never remember not to say,
never to show,
i have to be trained again.

in those hours when hands come together
when sleep's breathing matches the
oscillations of the fan,
i have dreams to show me something finer than
the trapping heat beneath the streets and glowing screens.
the reining-in of what the heart demands
in many faces, familiar as my hands.
and in me.
there must be something better
than this scraped feeling.

losing much and gaining nothing,
learning bitter things again.
as medicines may cause me to shake, leafwise,
likewise these lessons bring me no relief-
but only substitute one kind of sickness for another.
so, my dreams.
some sense of flight
ease from the problems of gravity
things which are not, but should be.