Your dreams were like Japanese characters,
each one strange to me, elegant and angular,
delicate, difficult strokes, all
the flutterings of sparrows, snow, and leaves in fall
and they were haiku, too:
composed of love like cool morning skies,
like quiet, early moons,
shy in the purple-gray of fading afternoons –
I grew to love you.
But I am the sandman, and all I know is sand –
the stuff of dreams
slips forever through my shaking hands;
I lie awake and only others sleep.