The Dream of Others

In a buttercup. In a buttercup is all the room one needs to hold the moon. Fancy yrself the sitter in the buttercup's bottom,the rounding moon yr womb, yr head held back to drink the icy sky, the night,the colors pouring down yr throat like black liqueur spilled at the top of the world.

When the flower sways--with wind or weariness--you sway too, the moon sways too, yr womb.You cannot stop this ride. See how yr flesh grows into the petals--or is it the petals that grow into yr flesh? The stamen rising up between yr thighs. Pollen clinging to yr arms, yr lips, yr breasts and belly. The more you touch, the more you believe that by touching you change.

These petals, too, shall shrivel. This moon, too, shall wane. The rest need not be said; it has already been said, and you are weary from hearing it. From below, yr body is consumed by light like fire lit at the bottom of the world, licking towards the top. It feels like feeling.

All yr cells, and all the buttercup's cells, and all the moon's cells roll over and over each other--the orgy of nothingness. Sweat, pollen, and dust. What of this union shall come? What of this union has ever come?

Only when rhythm and sweat are well met do particles realize they are having the same dream and dream the dream for others. The dream of others.