If

If the trees' green needles were spikes, if spikes
were melting icicles, I'd be a chariot, I'd be
the one riding the horse like no one else;
if I'd be a chariot, you'd be a fish,
you'd be the iridiscent scale
outside of it.

Dream

I spill my coffee;
I lick my fingers, how
they are soaked in coffee the way
rain soaks trees whose crown gleams,
is glass dregs shimmering. The trees are not
themselves: fakes. The ones I know do not sweat,
do not shiver like bees' buzz, had sound been flashes,
do not seem a lemon in colour, no: they have
the ordinary kelly colour. Now I peel bark
of the trunk. Now not, my hands full
of sap. In my right hand I hold
a peach, smeared in sap,
to be eaten.