I placed in my mouth
a wordless lump of dream
[          ]
and earth was clean
for a while
with little-souls
gliding-without
the-weight-of-shadows
hours deep in music
while opinion was
a remote latitude
and the future had no
literature or comets
and the ebb of morning
was an impossible mutation
of white and sound,
I had been masticating
this wordless lump of
dream
{          }
and faces had meadows
with rich fogs
cutting the edge
of smiles and drifting
through silver breezes
and the earth
was clean
for a while.

Contemporary Poetry