to the dream of the dawn?
is it deferred
or it dried up
like a date-palm-nut in the desert sun?
I remember when you stacked your tongue out—
and the old man inside me became young again
the sun has not traveled half the golf course
it is only the quarter moon
what happened to the dream
that it howls a thousand torments
cursing the sky god
whose plea for mercy
raises more dust than buffaloes stampeding
my poem limps
pallid from seasons of diet of tears
to the dream of the dawn
entangled in fetid forests
sinking in shimmering pools?