Wash azure the linen
and into its folds pour glue
that past and present stick,
lest we dismiss that we exist .
Waves subtract sand from the beach ,
and from the water the sand separates.
Dreamer, I am the sequence to your bottom,
stretching downward from skipping white caps.
I am veiled, hooded Rider,
Kismet in my saddle
I ride Camel through the dunes,
under star clocks that mark the Arabesques.
Dreamers be not vaulted,
butterflies released must flutter,
and as to how or why they falter,
be not bothered, Navigation is our Father.
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