The Cave
I dream of the dark,
stepping over slippery rocks,
searching, by the glow
of my own garments.
Beneath these rough continents
lies hidden treasure;
somewhere beneath me
yawns a depth my waking mind
cannot comprehend.
In sleep, though, the chill
flavor of that emptiness
threatens to drown me,
sharper on the tongue
than cold sea water, than milk
squeezed from a handful
of constellations. Light
has no place here, but I can’t
escape my own glaze,
the only remnant
of the waking world. Until
I shed this white gown,
I can’t slip below
the surface. But I am in
no hurry. The cave
itself is the prize,
and the unbroken silence
it holds like a gem
in its jaws. What life
could prepare you for this dream?
What dreamer would strip
unquestioningly?
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