I Did Not Dream in Far Fetched Themes ( I.P. )

I could spill too many
reservoirs, endless wells,
just to express this one drop
that could crush any mountain of doubt.

I could interpret your touch
in Shakespearean storm,
and define your hands
like lightening held
by Zeus himself.

Instead I slept…
in a gray t-shirt last night,
bordering my breasts
with something more
than cotton, continents,
and endless seas.

I did not dream
a knit of well woven yarns,
strung out across
mythological oceans, full of
monsters in pursuit,
or of never-seen nibulas exploding
into a wet flesh of creation tales.

Your nature did not grow
in the length of Beowulf’s watery shadow,
warring off fanciful dragons
on my behalf, and conquering
such shocking demons, so I might
simply breathe.

I did not dream in far fetched themes,
unbelievable hopes, ungraceful schemes.
Drenched in memories,
I dreamt a plain truth, in its soft gray t-shirt,
of you finally, closely, covering me.