I know that my dreams are alive and well

when I look out and see the yellow flames,

dancing in the shadows of the wall, tell

of the spirits in our corporal frames:

They stay with us like light lingers at night,

resting on threads spun by other senses,

perpendicular to the thought of flight

from this field of invisible fences:

Running on the barbs of the jagged wrist,

the currents of courage ripped up their feet,

and the blood drips down to where winds have kissed

the marrow of the leaves, whose foils I eat:

I know that my dreams are alive and well,

since I am what they were before they fell.