The Revisionist’s Dream (I)

Old as seawater. And the dream as large as a sea. 
We dream like that. And longer than that. Wider. 
And hear the sound of bleak bells like flat stone 
on flat stone. We stand—our hands are empty 
and the floor is steep, the floor is a deep sea 
with fish like stones who call like bells. Like 
brittle bells. And the song is running water. 
And the water is rising. 

And the prison we choose 
is narrow, and we swear we never dreamed those walls. 
So the way the light breaks out from the night 
is how we break away, how we carry our lives 
like a sack or a stone—and we are just one river; 
the water is sweet is shallow is slow but the dream 
is dark and smoky, like a woman's hair let down. 
It winds like that.