Howard Firkin
The everlasting universe of things,
the physical, the real, the things we touch,
the things we gather, throw, or trust to clutch,
the treasure and the rubbish Santa brings,
these things dissolve the other worlds we dream.
The petals of those worlds fall down, arc right
and left and fall, a tiny, fragile storm:
disperse, collect, shift, settle, move, reform,
and shatter into something—stars at night,
or flecks of mica making granite gleam.

You know I never think of you by choice.
Last night I dreamt of you—your skin, your eyes—
and let the birdsong logic of your voice
transfuse me with the plasma of old lies.