Spring shadows at the cemetery,
two old men, both with walkers,
meeting on a green transcendental plane
quietly conversing
along a row of headstones and graves.

I had the strong impression
that spirits were talking,
that they were there all the time,
that I was close enough to know.

Sunlight through the trees
A blue canvas
Birds crisscrossing
The day a “pure serene”
A colour Keats invented
The radiance
Of angels in the blue
And the sadness
With which they gaze upon us

When the dreamer is cut open
The surgeons are swallowed by the dream
The medium crossed over
And was devoured by ants
Acupuncture needles
Go through to where the dream fades
A masseuse became
A mannequin without hands
In the sleep laboratory
Centipedes infest computers
Neither therapy nor soporifics
Could cure him
He dreamt until the day he died
And then he could not tell
If he was dreaming or the world

A strange distance for anyone,
driving between the lines
of being well or ill,
following traffic to the end.

Red lights are reprieves,
yellow goes both ways,
green condemns you to go,
stop signs lie to your face.

You drive on and wait.

When you find a dead body
Your fingers turn to ice
They reach down through the earth
And pick rocks from the quarrel
Between life and death
When you touch a dead body
And feel for a pulse
Your hand slips through
The moment the heart stopped
Down into the depths of timelessness
Then you are wordless
And stand in the cold
Exchanging glances
With the ancient face of silence