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Bill Wolak – Ⅲ






After the love which multiplies love,

your breasts are the fruit

of an orchard on fire.


Gradually after we slide apart

in an electrocuted numbness,

all our breathing is like the low groan

of wind resounding through an off shore bell.


After the snapped wishbone in a squall of blood,

your sweat tastes of dried up oceans

in the spreading desert of an hourglass.





To Let  the Dream Work



I watch you fall asleep to remember

the exact color of dawn.

I see you dance in your sleep

embracing everything around you.


With the light on,

you’re asleep on the beach

legs wrapped around the sun.


When I switch off the light,

your body lapses into a green fever.


I stare at you for hours transfixed in the darkness,

the outline of your face barely visible

like the moonlit edge of an exhausted cloud.


I watch the fetal posture of your body

and wait,

knowing there is still time to sleep within your sleep,

to fall endlessly into your ever opening embrace,

knowing there is still time to work until I can dream,

and then let the dream work.


I study your eyes twittering wildly

and have memorized the deep passageways of your sleep,

so that I can hold you when you dream

and become that dream:

the nightmare that is always just finishing,

the life that is always just beginning.