i sat alone atop the broken hill to dream,
with drink in hand — a cup to wake me from the dream.
the severing of hand from hand goes solemnly
with all the inauspicious birds; of flight, they dream.
insatiable, my love — i’d drink a thousand cups
if only i could see you when, at last, i dream.
the wind cries still, the way she blows across the field
and through my hair, she sings like nothing in my dream.
more wine to spill from glass to glass — like fountains, old
and cold, yet filling me with warmth; tonight we dream.
to my beloved, do i hope to see tonight
your face, your mercy, and your passion in my dream.