Blue Angel 3

By Natalie Morales

I alone dream.

It is not you who
pulls me among
astral dimensions
through and in spite of time.

I alone dream.

I fly
and you are not my wings.
You are not the pigment or the paint,
the brush or the canvas.
The trees shade only me.

So why must you canalize my body and my being
when I sleep alone
and I alone
dream?

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2 comments

  1. Lovely poem, feels like an ekphrastic poem — I’d like to see it together with an image of — maybe — a Renaissance era painting of a sleeping nymph, or sleeping somebody.

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